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chrollohearttags · 1 month ago

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𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 | 𝚎. 𝚓𝚊𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚛

studying has been taking up a lot of your time (and mental energy) as of late. Your boyfriend has just the plan to shut your brain off for the night.

black nurse!reader (fem descriptors), eren is a nursing student (a few years younger than reader also) fingering, neck kissing, choking, facefucking, rough-ish sex, squirting, missionary, slightly aggressive rennie 🫠, daddy is used once, nipple play, calls reader slut, spit play, fingers in mouth, creampie, multiple orgasms

word count: 5.3K

🎙️: some of y’all might remember this AU from Wattpad and I’m officially restarting it bc my muse for the others are shot right now. If you’re not familiar with it, I apologize in advance bc I promise it’s not this smutty and juicy in the slightest ☠️ I’m just in a mood. Also, this is my first fic in almost two months, please be nice or I’ll cry!

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“You know you play too fucking much, right?”

“Mmmm..nah, I don’t think I’ve played enough. Look at you. All tense and shit.”

if there was one word in the entire English language that you could use to describe your mood at the moment, it’d most certainly be irritable. To the highest degree..and granted, that could have been chocked up to the fact that you hadn’t eaten in hours, you’d been staring at textbooks and computer screens since four in the afternoon and your phone screen read nine thirty..and to really add the proverbial icing atop the cake, this annoying ass man would not leave you alone! Here it was only a week away from your BSN final; two from his N-CLEX exam and here he was bullshitting as per usual. It was how he approached most things in life, his mantra if you will. No need to stress, what’s meant to be will happen.

too bad, you couldn’t take on those sorts of ideologies when so much was at stake! Not when the results of these tests would determine your future as an RN and instructor, and his career as a nurse in general. You’d met Eren Jaeger almost three years ago when he was merely a patient at the office you worked for during your initial internship..earning clinical hours and experience in the field. He was most certainly the liveliest one you’d seen in Dr. Smith’s office and there was never an appointment where you didn’t leave in stitches because he’d made you laugh so hard. However, you pegged him as the rich kid, the son of a doctor with no ambition or common sense...always looking to make a joke out of everything.

so imagine your surprise when you were tasked with not only supervising an entire floor but the local nursing school recruits as well and the first person to come traipsing through those heavy double doors was him! And even more so, in six months time, he’d have you wooed and swept off your feet. That same charm and wit that had you cackling during his appointments were the same ones that made you nearly spit your drink out when you were on a date and eased serious tension among your staff after a rough night on the floor. Just being in his presence brought you immense comfort. However, at the moment…

“Look, Eren. I’m busy, find sum’ else to do, for real.”

you weren’t in the mood for any of it! This exam had been causing you immense stress and it seemed that no matter how hard you studied, retaining information was impossible. Nothing stuck and you were at your wits end..certainly not in the mood for childish antics.

”I’m trying but you don’t want to stop—“

“Maybe because everything isn’t a goddamn joke to me.”

Eren could see the frustration, hence why he had come up behind you, in a half assed attempt to make you scared and somehow wound up groping your chest in the process. Admittedly, he’d never seen you act like this..never even so much as raise your voice at him and here you were, lashing out. Part of him understood your feelings. He knew how important this was and although he wasn’t showing it, he was equally as nervous for his own test. But regardless, nothing was going to change tonight and especially by sitting here irate and snappy. The only thing he wanted to do was shut his brain off and wanted his beloved (y/n) to follow suit..and he was willing to make it happen by any means!

“Eren, what did I just say—“

one thing that he had learned since being together was that once your mind was resigned to something..there was no changing it. So rather than spend time arguing with you, he had another solution!

“..I heard you, I don’t give a fuck about all that right now…’just trying to help..”

“You’re trying to help me by fucking me? Righttt.”

“Yes, I think it’s a very helpful tool for relieving stress. Seen that somewhere in my text book or sum’..”

“Mmm, I think me and you were studying different materials..but sure, why not.”

seconds later, his hand was snaking around your upper body, clutching your throat with the other steadily pulling the chair back and his lips marking your neck with soft kisses. He was adamant in making sure that you got proper rest and a distraction. What better way to do so than to wear you down? Eventually, you’d find those large hands of his snaking around to the front, making home back on your plump breasts..soft, voluptuous and perky as they sat up in your tank top. He could see you visibly enjoying this little tease, indicative by the way your muscles relaxed. He’d continue to massage them until your legs almost instinctively parted.

That’s when, before you even had time to react, he’d spin you around to face him. His grasp still firm around your throat as he moved in for a kiss. Your tongues collided in a steamy clash; smacking against one another as you attempted to catch your breath. But he wasn’t leaving you much room to do so, less known, attest him right now.

“Exactly..now keep those legs spread and don’t move.”

the command was so absolute and matter of fact, it damn near caught you off guard! He’d never spoken to you in such a manner. It was always so playful, jovial and even a bit needy during times like this. But alas, you’d awoken this side of him and you were going to have a hell of a time ‘calming’ him down. Even so, you’d follow his order just this once and part those thick thighs until that plump center, sheathed by the smallest pair of shorts he’d ever seen. Your physique truly was something special…thick in all of the correct areas with stretch marks and a semi-pudgy tummy to match. Your belly ring dangled from the gentle force of him maneuvering you around.

“Eren..I—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, save it…you don’t always have to handle shit alone. I got you..just let me help, okay? I promise, you can trust me..”

he was aware of your past..how mean and cruel previous partners had been so he was very careful in how he approached you. He understood all too well that being overly aggressive would only prove to make you anxious or even shut down entirely. His intention was never to make you uncomfortable. Even so, he wanted to see you give yourself to him fully…trust that he would do right by you and not take advantage of the precious gift that was your love.

he would take great care of you to not only relax but feel pleasure like you’d never experienced it. Although you seemed a bit reluctant, you were ready for whatever he was going to toss your way! Assuring him that you were all his for the taking..

“Fineee…I trust you..”

without a moment of hesitation, he’d detach from your own mouth and move down your neck. Whilst those tits remained exposed, he’d prompt you to give each of those nipples a light squeeze in his place. Meanwhile, his own hands were busy gliding into your underwear, trying to locate that aching bud. That long, tattooed forearm gliding down the center of your torso as a result. It would also serve as a semblance of comfort when he inevitably brought you to ecstasy..

“Mmm..there we go, baby..fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“That’s because you were grabbing on my neck..”

“Oh you like that, huh? I’ll keep it in mind..”

you wouldn’t know it but when you first began dating Eren, he was completely inexperienced. Although he wore his confidence like a lapel pin, he was incredibly timid, shy and nervous when it came to intimacy. The first time you two actually had sex, he lasted all of three minutes before he forced himself to pull out and splatter you with a heavy load. Left a trembling mess, his entire face turned beet red as he just glared at you. He was certain you were going to leave him right then and there; flustered and apologetic, he’d try to make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t satisfy you to your full potential. However, you thought it was adorable! He’d worked up all of his courage to give you a night filled with pleasure and even though it didn’t pan out quite the way he imagined, he had made a complete turnaround since that night and had done good to broaden his sexual horizons. You grew together; learning one another’s ticks and desires, which he knew each of yours to a science. So much so, you practically melted within his grasp and wanted to see just how far he’d take it!

“Open your mouth f’r me, princess…” prompting you as he causally glided those fingers across your tongue. Your gorgeous brown eyes fixated on him in a lustful gaze..by this time, you’d come to completely face him with that tall, lanky frame hovering above. You were all but level with that rising tent within his sweats. Meanwhile, his opposite set of digits were good and preoccupied with your juicy cunt; tightening around the base of the knuckles and then releasing once he’d use the thumb to stroke your swollen clit. Such an awkward position to be in at the moment but it was well worth it for the amount of pleasure both of you were about to receive. Finally retracting the ones in your mouth, Eren would leave you with a trail of drool seeping down your lips and chest in the process. Looking fucked out and starved already without so much as even a single thrust yet..that was the type of desperation and submission he wanted to see from you..

“ ‘ren…lemme suck on that dick..”

although he was trying to maintain control, who was he to deny your very blunt request? After all, he knew if you were dripping now, this would inevitably have you overflowing. Just as the first hand did, he’d slowly withdraw from those tight folds and allow you to clean up the remnants before tugging at that elastic waistband. “oh shit..I knew you’d come around. Here, baby..”

suddenly, you’d feel that same grasp on the back of your head, tugging you forward so that he could align himself with the rim of those pretty lips. The softness brushing against the tip as he rubbed them around…teasing you. “There you go..kiss it—stick your tongue out..that’s it..” from there, (y/n) needed no further instruction. Without the guidance of your own hands, you’d take his entire tip into your mouth and begin to suckle. Suctioning in, enclosing the silkiness of those jaws around his cock. “Fuck..you don’t need me to tell you anything..just make me feel good, princess..like you always do—“

he was well aware of how deviant you truly could become when the need arised. From outside appearances, you always looked so poised and proper..never getting out of character and to some, you’d even come off as ‘boujie’. However, Eren got to see the multitude of your complex layers; dispelling the notion that you were dull or boring. Including this one..the very promiscuous side that would do whatever it took to get hers and make him climax too! When it came to the bedroom, you were adamant and steadfast in what you wanted and he had no issue fulfilling those requests. Eventually, you’d take another couple of inches before establishing a rhythm. It didn’t take long for the very audible sounds of slurping and gagging to emit as a result. You’d gaze up to see Eren’s head resting back on his shoulder blades; groans spilling out in a whiny huff as a result of it all. You could be rather relentless when it came to pleasuring him but he didn’t mind it one single bit, of course!

“Oh my—shit, baby. You take me so good..fucking your own face like that. I love it..”

those words only served as further encouragement and inevitably prompted you to cradle his balls in addition, knowing how sensitive they were. Giving them a light squeeze, you’d continue forcing his shaft between your jaws; the sloppy wet strings of drool pooling down your chest serving as a testament to how much you were enjoying yourself. Where limits should have existed, there were none and it wasn’t long before he’d find himself buried to the hilt of your throat with your forehead scraping his pelvis. With that salacious gaze fixated on him, Eren had to all but restrain himself from forcing a load down your esophagus. But to be fair, this was the outcome he desired so badly and kept pestering you for.

“F—fuck! You’re not playing fair, baby.. ‘gonna make me come if you don’t stop..”

that deep tone with breathy whimpers cried out as he struggled to maintain his composure. However, you weren’t interested in letting up when he so rudely disturbed your study session. He was going to pay for breaking your focus! In a quick slight of hand, you’d shift his member into your palm and his sack in between your lips. Making slow jerking motions until you’d lean back up and coat both with exorbitant amounts of saliva. Seeing how filthy and unabashed you had become for him was causing Eren to lose his mind. Sometimes, he felt as though he couldn’t keep up with you and this was one of those moments. Although this little sexual escapade was his idea, you’d seem to have taken full, unequivocal control of the situation.

“That’s exactly what I want…”

“Then gag yourself on this dick, baby..let that stress out.”

that look in your eyes screaming for him to give you every ounce of his creamy nut…wanting to swallow every drop. Eventually, you’d begin to writhe around against the desk chair, attempting to create friction and stimulation for your clit. Your nipples had once again become extremely hard and the slightest brush was driving you crazy. Eren had heard your response loud and clear, which led him to sandwiching your head between those same fingers that had once curled up inside of you. He’d prompt you to take his cock back into your mouth so that he could work out all of that cum of his own accord.

the pace mirrored that of heavy, rough strokes..ones you’d get to experience soon enough. Gag spit along with loud moans poured out as a result of his brutal pounding but you welcomed the sensation..even increasing it by reaching down and fingering yourself in his place. “..yeah, play with your pussy, baby..” It wasn’t even a full five minutes before you noticed his stride beginning to break and his toned legs trembling. The last couple movements were off kilter and choppy but soon, you’d have your reward in the form of his seed. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, damn—‘coming—“

in that very moment, (y/n) would find yourself held in place by the tight grasp of his palms as he allowed that thick cock to pulsate in the back of your throat. The warm fluid filled your oral cavity until he could muster another drop. The entire time, his loud groaning was permeating the room as well. Once he was able to regain his senses, Eren would slowly withdraw and examine the aftermath. That towering six foot something frame would take a step back to truly take in the beautiful sight in front of him. You were drenched from the neck to your belly button in silky fluids…that wrung out tank top sat idly underneath your breasts and those shorts were halfway around your thighs at this point. To say he’d make an absolute wreck of you would be an understatement.

“Lemme look at you…”

proudly displaying his work of ‘art’, you’d cup those saliva laden tits and squeeze them together with your tongue dangling. By the look on your face, something told him that you were more than happy he’d interrupted you! “Yeah..that’s how you should look. Happy as fuck.” Shoving his thumb between your puckered lips, he’d then bend down to shove his tongue into your mouth for a sloppy peck.

but something also told him that you couldn’t be satisfied with merely sucking him off. You needed��no, you deserved more.

“Are we done? If so, imma be disappointed.”

“Of course not, baby..I got you.”

Regardless of how lightheaded that orgasm had made him, he leaned forward and took you into his grasp. Hoisting you up in one fell swoop to carry you to the bed that was a mere ten feet away. Once he had you flat against the mattress, he’d make haste in disrobing you of those clothes to render you completely naked. He’d follow suit and tug his sweats until they reached his ankles so he could kick them off. Once the two of you were left with only your bare flesh, Eren wasted no time in pinning both your wrists and ankles behind your head. But not before propping your head up with a pillow. A position that led to excitement riddling your face. From this angle, you could watch it go in and out together. With you exactly where he wanted, your boyfriend began the descent down your torso to that plump center. Those fat lips drenched in slick whilst that aching bud protruded between them. He knew you were already overly sensitive so he didn’t want to keep you waiting for much longer but the selfish glutton in him just had to have a taste of that divine nectar.

“Just be patient with me..’need to make sure you’re good and ready first..”

immediately, your eyes would roll to the back of your skull and a nervous giggle arose as well. Make no mistake, he allowed you to have your fun but it was his turn to take control now. Delving headfirst between your thighs, Eren began his quick descent onto that swollen pearl and lapped around it. You’d immediately grasp at the sheets, eyes trailing to the back of your skull as those feet dangled in the air. He’d keep you at bay with a hand clutched around your throat as he continued exploring those folds with his tongue. For a split second, his head would raise to make eye contact with you.

“Fuck..you really needed this, huh? You’re already starting to come..” alluding to the fact that your juices were spurting out as he scooped his tongue inside of your hole and rubbed that sensitive clit. It seemed his skills grew better and better each time you two had sex. He was far more attune to your needs and desires, even more aware of them than you were sometimes.

“Y-yeah!..how’d you learn to do that?” “What can I say? I got a hell of a teacher...” tossing you a wink and a smirk because you truly did turn him out when it came to the bedroom. He’d continue lapping and tracing his tongue intricately throughout your folds until he received the beautiful payout of you squirting all over his face. Try as you might to harbor restraint, it was to no avail and of no use…that tight entrance would spasm before more would spill forth. Just to increase that pleasure, Eren added a finger in hopes of coaxing more out.

“Give me that cum, baby..that’s it. Make a fucking mess for me..” and you certainly didn’t disappoint. The shower of sweet juices continued for another minute or so before you’d lie there, spent and breathless from such an amazing orgasm. Once he’d gotten his fill, your boyfriend would return to the surface for air and to get a good look at your current state. “You taste so good..love making you squirt in my fucking face..” Breaking into a sadistic chuckle, he’d readjust so that his palms were stationed firmly on the backs of your thighs and that he was centered right between them..in that moment, he’d slide his throbbing member across the sensitive core and tease it for a moment. But you couldn’t handle that at the moment.

“Eren, please don’t play..I need you so fucking bad right now..”

nearly in tears from the pending overstimulation and the overwhelming need to be stuffed full of his cock. Your walls would ache and spasm in anticipation; so much so, he’d watch you reach for his hips to guide him in. But naturally, nothing with this man came completely easy…he had to mess with you a bit for all of the resistance earlier. Just as you went to grab him, he’d pin those wrists back in one fell swoop with one hand and use the other to press into your stomach.

“I know you do…that’s why you’re gonna beg me for it.” Immediately being met with a look of shock and a bit of infuriation. Even so, you’d remain there, lying in wait until he got what he wanted.

“I mean, you were being all fussy earlier..I’m not convinced you really deserve it..c'mon, princess…change my mind.” he was so assured of himself and honestly, you were in no position to attest. The desire grew stronger with every passing moment and if he didn’t deliver soon, you were bound to implode. “Fuuuck, Eren! Please—“ “That’s better but not quite..tell me how badly you need me to fuck you.” Besides, when he hovered above you like this, looking so fucking attractive and domineering, you felt no other choice but to submit. So setting your pride aside, (y/n) began to grovel..whimpering and bucking your hips to meet the friction of his shaft rubbing against your wet folds. You’d tell him how good he made you feel and that your body was his for the taking, unequivocally. Finally, that submission and trust he had craved..best believe, he was going to take care not to break it. After your speech, he’d seem content and proceeded to tap the head of that appendage against you before gripping the base and making one full glide across the outside and shoving it inside. Sucking his teeth and moaning as he made place between that flesh.

“Oh fuck…that’s it, gorgeous. Right there..”

you’d release a whimper of your own as you became acclimated to that thick shape. You’d clench around him once before releasing and he knew he couldn’t sit idle for long. With haste, he’d begin slamming his hips forward, quickly trying to establish some semblance of a rhythm so that he didn’t blow his load too quickly. Upon being immersed in that juicy cunt, he’d find his knees buckling from the sensation.

“..pussy’s so fucking tight..and warm..oh God, I love you so much..” his whiny yet deep moans complimented by the sounds of smacking flesh. With your hands now planted firmly on your asscheeks, per his instructions, you’d keep it spread open so that he had ample room to give you both the satisfaction you both desired. Suddenly, his strokes would increase in speed and depth; really stretching you out. Jolting that body around as those perky tits bounced from the force. “Fuck!… babyyyy…” “I know, baby. I know..you just look so pretty when I’m digging you out. I can’t help but fuck you this hard.” Cooing to you as he bent down to plant soft kisses along your forehead. You’d cry out, maneuvering your hands to his back, digging your nails into it..you’d never felt pleasure like this with anyone else. The way he made love to you was incomparable. Even when you fought against it, he knew your body’s needs and wanted more than anything to satisfy them.

“That’s right, princess..let me fuck that stress out of you..let that mind go blank. Just focus on taking this dick.” Whispering in your ear as you held him close.

eventually, your legs would coil around his waist and your eyes would trail to the back of your skull in a haze of sheer ecstasy. You didn’t know what to do with yourself..all except fall apart underneath him. Your body was a bundle of tight nerves, bound together by the building ecstasy and you were bound to explode any minute. Unfortunately for you, he wasn’t done teasing quite yet..instead, he had one more move he just had to try in hopes of sending you over the edge.

“Eyes on me, baby..yeah, I need to see that pretty face right now.”

garnering a smile as he leaned back up and maneuvered his arms to fall into the center of your torso. Suddenly, you’d feel a slight pinch of your nipples before he began to rub them slowly. Tracing tiny circles as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. It was very apparent you couldn’t handle it by the way that cunt twitched around his shaft..you were bound to explode at any moment. Mouthing off about how good it feels as he made alternating motions on those sensitive buds; rolling them between his fingertips, squeezing and even leaning down to suckle them for a brief moment. The sensation lasted for a few minutes before he’d return his attention back to ensuring you got your well deserved orgasm. This time, with a bit more aggression because he recalled how excited you’d gotten when he grasped your throat.

“Oh my God…fuck! ‘m gonna come—“

“Then do it..come f’r me, slut..give me what I want.”

the name sending you into an absolute spiral as he never spoke that way on a regular basis and would never think to disrespect you. But this was exactly what you craved. To be used and made devoid of all feelings except pleasure. Suddenly, you’d feel his fingertips squeezing your jaws as he increased his speed yet again..this time, feeding you the deepest, longest strokes he could muster. The two of you would spout off filthy, steamy remarks at one another through gritted teeth, intense glares and breathy moans as you reached down to aid him by stroking your aching bud.

“ ‘m so fucking close, baby. I don’t think I can hold it..”

“Fuck yes you are..that pussy’s gripping me so tight right now..goddamn.”

Eventually, those thrusts became rather sporadic and Eren was rapidly losing both his composure and stamina. The both of you were so near your peaks that it was only a matter of time before you exploded. You’d try to outlast him but as he maintained that clutch on your jaw, he’d lean down to spit into your mouth, letting that trail drip down onto your tongue as you stuck it out. He knew what was coming and he couldn’t be vexed to continue anticipating it so your boyfriend decided to assist with a little extra lubrication.

“Get yourself off..I’m not fucking waiting..” Without hesitation, (y/n) scooped that saliva out your mouth and onto your fingertips to massage that clit once more. You were rubbing so fast, your head began to grow fuzzy and soon, nothing but an image of static and blackness would fill your vision as you released all over him; voiding yourself of all those warm, sweet sticky juices as they sprayed his abdomen. Right above the incisions from some prior operations..he wore it as a badge of honor quite frankly. That a woman who once took care of him, was now having all of her wants and needs fulfilled. His cock sat idly inside of you until that stream became too powerful and all but pushed him out. That’s when he’d simply grasp the base of his throbbing member and tap against your slit.

“Shit! Oh my gosh..”

“Ahhh..fuck. That’s it..I knew if I got in it deep enough, you’d squirt for me again, baby. That’s my girl..”

“Fuuuck, it feels so good!”

You’d continue spraying until you convulsed uncontrollably. He was still in awe of the mess you’d made but there was still the task of releasing his own. Although he loved the sight of you in such a vulnerable state, he couldn’t let up. Grasping your hips once more, he’d tug you down onto it and continue drilling you with his cock. This time, to relieve himself.

“Hold still, I’m not yet…need to..come inside of you..”

clutching the backs of your thighs, Eren relentlessly shoved that thick cock back inside of you, pumping sporadically until he felt his own legs begin to quiver. It wouldn’t be long before his stride broke so he’d bend down to grant you one last kiss and sweet nothing. Cradling the side of your head into his palms in an intimate manner. With baited, sporadic breath and whiny cries, he’d pour his soul out to you. Becoming almost obiedient and subservient himself.

“I love you! fuck…I love you so much...”

“I love you too..”

“Am I making you feel good? Did I do a good job? Can I come inside of you..please, baby. Can I?”

and without hesitation, you’d nod your head profusely and grant him his wish. But not without sending him spiraling with your last statement.

“Yes, please! Come in this pussy, daddy..I need it.” And from that moment on, Eren fell to pieces. Collapsing his entire body weight onto your own as your legs coiled around his waist, ensuring he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted. His final thrust came in a sharp, forceful thud before he’d begin to pulsate and eventually, release every last drop of remaining semen he had to offer. Emptying his balls inside of you shamelessly. Already spent from his earlier orgasm, he’d let out an ear curdling grunt, allowing you to claw into his back because he knew he’d lost all semblance of control and had probably been a bit rough. However, none of that mattered..you both were utterly satisfied and it was apparent by the puddle of tears streaming down each of your faces. Never had either of you experienced lovemaking so powerful that it reduced you to literal tears.

eventually, he’d finish pumping the remnants into you and soon, find the strength to pull out. Once he was able to gather his own bearings, he’d turn his attention to you.

“Are you okay, princess? I'm gonna go grab you some water and a towel real quick—“

even insisting he’d help you to the bathroom afterwards to avoid an infection and get cleaned up properly. However, he was shocked to find that his words were falling completely on deaf ears! That’s when he’d turn around to see you sound asleep..completely knocked from the events that just transpired. All he could do was laugh to himself not only out of pure pride but the fact that you truly needed this reset. Although he admired and looked up to your hard work ethic, even the most brilliant of brains needed rest. Those test materials, patients and everything else would be there when you awoke..but for now, you could focus on yourself!

taglist: idenwhims @blaxcunicorn @valentineluvu @cocoacunt @charminstasia @star0bsessi0n @mrsackermanfeed @aquabby21

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heartyluv · 3 months ago

Text

Note: Just thought about being friends with benefits with Caleb…. I really can’t stop writing about him. HE WON’T GET OUT OF MY BRAIN!!!!!

Link to full fic ;)

Word Count: 1,080

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Smut

FWB&Jealous!Caleb/Reader Headcanons

❃ He texts you past like 12 in the morning at least four times a week. It’s always, “Hey. You up?”

❃ Of course you’re up. Partially because you rarely get to bed at a decent time, but also because you know you’re going to get that message from him asking if you’re okay with him coming over at some point.

❃ You say yes every time and because he knows you’re going to say yes, he’s already outside your door. Like I believe he gets ready, comes to your house, and then sends the text.

❃ Caleb is a really good friend. Like besides the mind blowing sex, him coming over like this isn’t something out of the ordinary. In fact, it’s expected. You just never know if the night is going to end simply with you two falling asleep on the couch with the TV on or in your bed with his cock still nestled inside of you because both of you are too lazy to get up.

❃ Caleb settles for FWB…for now. Like duh, he wants more with you, wayyyy more. But in this scenario, I feel like you’ve mentioned how you’re not ready for a relationship or something like that, so he refused to confess what he really wants so that he can keep you. He’s ready when you are, really.

❃ He definitely is the one who suggested that you two start sleeping together. You’ve told him how curious you were about sex, but how you feared giving yourself to some guy who didn’t deserve it.

❃ And he was your first. Once that happened, oh you were stuck with him without even knowing it.

❃ “I can show you, if you’d like. I promise to take care of you like you deserve. Doesn’t even have to be anything weird, you know? Just one time so you know what it feels like. I don’t mind, really.”

❃ But you became addicted and you never wanted to acknowledge if it was because it was Caleb or just sex in general. A big part of you already knew the answer, but you’d never admit it to yourself. So when you told him what you were craving, he was more than ready to be your fuck buddy.

❃ When he comes in this time though, he seems tense. Being his friend, you’re genuinely concerned. What Caleb doesn’t want to tell you is how he found out from a mutual friend that you were planning on going on a date with some guy you met at work. He told Caleb this, thinking nothing of it, because Caleb has never told anyone how he felt about you.

❃ He tried to ignore it, tried to think that you wouldn’t even be interested. But the more Caleb thought about the stipulations you put on your… “situation”, the more it became impossible for him to sit with.

❃ I think you’d say something like if either of you started dating, you’d cut it off. No more sex, just friends, and if someone couldn’t deal with that, it was healthy for the both of you to end it all entirely. He couldn’t have that. He’d never allow it.

❃ So he’s going to show you through his actions how serious he is about you.

❃ Caleb doesn’t even want to beat around the bush. He’s grabbing on you, kissing you, breathing into your mouth, just making you take him, soon as he walks in. And he’s done this before when he’s been stressed with work or when he’s just really eager to take a load off.

❃ Because of that, you let him pull your clothes off while you strip him of his, and you never ask him what’s wrong until he gets his fill. And he’s making you ride him right there on your couch with only the light from the moon streaming in, he doesn’t give a DAMN!

❃ He’s stroking himself while he waits for you to sit on that dick I’M TELLING YOU!!!! IMAGINE ONLY BEING ABLE TO HEAR HIS HEAVY BREATHING, THE WET NOISE OF HIS COCK!!!! I’M SPIRALING.

❃ And when you start whimpering his name like a prayer while you sink down onto his cock…. He. Is. Losing. His. Mind. He’s spilling everything, he doesn’t even careeee what you’re thinking right now, all you need to do is listen.

❃ “I’m so in love with you. The thought of you letting anyone else but me get the privilege to see you like this makes me nauseous. Could you deal with me killing a man for you? Because if you ever let him experience this, I wouldn’t hesitate. Tell me what you need from me and I’ll become that and more to fulfill your every desire.”

❃ He’s hitting in you so deep, biting your skin, committing the way your walls soak him, suck him up, embrace him, to memory. It’s engraved in his psyche…

❃ He gets tired of feeling like he’s not close enough, not deep enough. He knows your space like it’s his own, so he easily navigates to your bedroom in the dark, all while he’s STILL SEATED IN YOU TO THE BRIM..

❃ He’s putting you in that bed, spreading them legs so wide, and he is nailing you THROUGH THE DAMN MATTRESS TILL IT HITS THE FUCKING FLOOR! AND HE’S BEGGING!!!!!!

❃ “I’ll make you see. I’ll make you realize how much I belong to you. I want to live in your body, I want to stay a part of you forever. I’ll do everything in my power, baby. Please take me, please, please don’t make me have to know what it’s like without you.”

❃ Kissing your jaw, sucking your nipples, rotating his hips so you feel his cock, all the way to the VEINS…

❃ “I’m not pulling out, I want you to feel my cum, baby. You’ll let me, won’t you? You’ll let me spill into you? Please tell me yes.. I’m so fucking close…”

❃ And yes… he’s on the verge of tears. And when you start running your hand through his hair while he’s WHIMPERING IN YOUR NECK…. The man doesn’t even know he’s coming until he’s COMING.

❃ He doesn’t stop either. Even when both of you come, he’s still rocking into you sloooowwwwlyyyy. CAN YOU FEEL IT?!!? Like back and forth, in an out, cum is spilling out of you, sticking onto your skin, staining your bed…. Like your clit is SCREAMING.. but you don’t want him to stop.

❃ You two just start making out. I’m talking sloppy, tongue everywhere, and he moves his hips ever so slightly just so you know how he’s still right there… AND YOU CANT STOP CLENCHING MY GOD…

❃ I NEED TO STOP BECAUSE I CAN GO ON ABOUT THIS FOREVER…

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace caleb #caleb smut #caleb x reader #love and deepspace headcanon #caleb headcanons #love and deepspace smut

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zottts · 1 month ago

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warnings - size kink, degradation, breeding kink (if you squint), not really a warning but worshipping, it's sentry expect it to be mean

you and sentry had been... 'together' for a while now, and you would think he would change somewhat, and he has - just a bit. but during sex? absolutely not, he was still the same man who wanted to be worshiped like a god, who will degrade and belittle you only because he finds it amusing when you moan and cry out his name as he pumps into you at his speed - why would he slow down for you he had l reasonings to, you liked it anyways. the way you could see his cock outline in your stomach, each little "oh you poor thing". it drove you mad, it was addictive. the only time he "went slow" was to put you in your place or fuck with you.

sentry just loved filling you up, every single time, watching your pathetic attempts to squirm under his hands - your almost doe eyes look as you looked up at him, hair all sprawled out on his pillows, mouth slightly ajar as he pumps into you mercifully, being able to see his cock completely fill you, and knowing you couldn't get enough of him. or from behind when he got his hands tangled within your soft locks of hair, pulling you up towards him with a semi-gentle pull, watching your back arch into him as be whispered how pathetic, useless, and stupid you looked being fucked by his cock.

how he is going to fuck you so stupid that you won't be able to walk nor speak for the next week. every little moan, whine, whimper, he would mock the sounds, how you reacted to things which each pump, as he moved in and out of you.

"so filthy. you want more, hm? you think you deserve more?" he spoke softly, despite the fact his tone was mocking,

he would make you beg for it til you were sobbing, trembling under him. it was so easy for him to ruin you, bring you down to nothing. because to him, like this - you were nothing, pathetic.

"sentry- mnn please?" between heavy breaths, it was a pathetic attempt, really. and you knew that.

"no, do better than that, now." he would slow down, painfully slow - and practically stopping until you were up to his standards. he wasn't asking, it was a command.

"sentry" he cocked an eyebrow, the words dying in your throat before you could even finish the sentence, like he was daring you to finish it. to see what would happen

"my god, sentry, ..my everything, p-please." you spoke through a broken sob, he started to move, in and out of you - slowly, on purpose. "aah-! fuck. please, oh my god please" a whine slipped out. you couldn't help that he was big, and it hurt. and he knew he was big too, of course he did. every time he fucked you like this he could always see the outline of himself inside you, the want to bury himself within you, to fill you completely with himself.

he couldn't help the low chuckle slip out of his mouth at your behavior, mmmn. i don't know if that's good enough." he held you in place so easily with his hands, it was like you were stuck in place. "so pathetic, can't even get a complete sentence out, poor thing." he paused for a moment, running his hands against your sides "you want me to fuck you stupid, fill you up?"

you quickly shake your head, it was hard enough to get a single word out - he knew that, but he wanted to hear you say it. "use your words or I'm pulling out." you took a deep breath "please, pretty please? god- please just move i need you so badly, you are the only one i need. just move" the words spilled out before you couldn't even get a thought in your head, the words sounded almost incoherent - it was like a flip that switched on in his brain, instead of belittling you, mocking you - he actually listens.

the after math of it you are out of breath, he went way past the point of your ecstasy. you laid on your stomach panting, hair in your face. he might be a god, an asshole, but not a monster. of course he was going to help you clean up. at least a bit.

#lewis pullman characters #bob reynolds #bob reynolds smut #the sentry #sentry smut #sentry x reader smut #sentry x reader #the void #smut #mdni

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azzibuckets · 3 months ago

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sweet [part seven]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: the queen of underdeveloped series is back…sincerest apologies for the long wait! im glad you guys have stuck around despite my inability to ever stick to a reasonable schedule

masterlist | series masterlist | sweet masterlist

Time heals all wounds.

It’s a mantra Azzi finds herself repeating in her head all too often. She repeats it when she breaks up with Micaela, although she realizes that the statement would've been more helpful for her now ex, who leaves with angry tears and a litany of curses trailing her wake, than herself, who merely takes a seat on the couch and stares aimlessly at the walls. She knows she should feel more than this—more sad, more upset, more regretful. More of anything. But she's so fucking tired of crying and feeling sad all the time, and Azzi can't really summon energy to even feel bad about the look on Micaela's face when she'd ended it so indifferently.

Again, Azzi repeats the mantra when she flies back home to Virginia after the Big East game, after the night she’d held Paige to sleep, the morning that she’d left her other half crying in the hotel room. And god, Azzi knows that for all the daggers she’s thrown at her best friend, all those furious accusations of how Paige has hurt her, she’s been hiding under it too. That deep inside, she knows full well that she's just as guilty, that she's driven the knife into Paige just as much. But hasn't it always been easier to avoid taking the blame, to scream at someone else instead of confronting your own demons?

It’s better for both of them to have space, Azzi justifies. And time. The further they are away from each other, the less likely they’re able to hurt each other. She has one more month of rehab in Virginia before she returns to Storrs for the rest of season—some state of normalcy will have to have returned by then, right?

Admittedly, she’s not in the best place mentally. She’s separated from her favorite people, forced to cheer them on through a TV screen and text them congratulations while pretending like the ugly, insecure voice in her head doesn't resent them for doing everything while she is capable of nothing. Azzi hates it when those thoughts invade her brain, but late at night, when her knee is screaming for relief and she feels so fucking alone, they take over and they don't stop. Lord knows how many sleepless nights she's spent digging herself into a mental spiral of anger towards herself and everyone else.

Azzi's been through this before, and she knows that pain is part of the process, but still, there are times she dreads having to wake up. Rehab is grueling, and she loves her parents, she does, but sometimes they get so overbearing. It’s not until her teammates come and visit that her moods finally lightens, and she finally feels a semblance of her old self again.

They surprise her, showering her with silly string and confetti. Azzi rolls her eyes, but she can't really hide the smile that breaks out on her lips. Even Kayla shows up, and the two nights they fill her house with chaos are the best of the entire month. She plays board games and hops on Fortnite and has mindless conversations with her teammates, things she missed so terribly, and tries not to feel bothered by the fact that Paige hadn’t come with the rest of the team. Neither had Caroline, and KK tells her that Paige hadn’t wanted to leave their friend alone in the dorms. Azzi can’t find it in herself to hate Paige for that, even though she suspects that that wasn’t the only reason for her keeping her distance.

When the first rolls around, Azzi is nervous. It’s been four weeks of no contact—the closest thing they’d gotten to interacting was Azzi liking Paige’s new Instagram post, for fuck’s sake. She’d stared pathetically for about forty-seven minutes, studying each of the slides, debating whether or not she should leave a comment. It had been a battle between the selfish side of her—the side that had wanted to pop up in Paige's notifications and force her to remember that Azzi still existed, make her feel some of Azzi's torture of always thinking of Paige—and the reasonable part of her, her conscience that said you are the reason why you can't even do something as simple as like a post anymore.

Even more overwhelming is the cycle of what-ifs when she thinks about having to face Paige again. The radio silence between them left no room for more arguments, but now she’s completely in the dark about what Paige’s current feelings are towards her, and she really can’t blame her if it’s anger, or resentment, or something worse, but still, the mere thought of Paige ignoring her or refusing to talk to her hurts Azzi more than she wants to admit.

Trying to focus on the positive, or basketball, or really anything besides Paige, Azzi is thankful when she returns to Storrs with much funfare. As soon as she opens the door to her apartment, there’s a mess of balloons and cheers, and a welcome back cake on the table. It’s a good distraction, until she scans the room and is hit with the fact that Paige isn’t there, again, and an ugly knot begins to form in her chest.

“You good?” Azzi, trying to stress eat her way through her worries, is spooning a piece of sugary cake and whipped cream into her mouth when a hand rubs her shoulder.

“Hey, Nika,” she greets the brunette, pulling her in for a brief hug. “Yeah, I’m good.” She doesn’t miss the way Nika eyes her up and down, clearly seeing right through her.

Azzi hesitates, tapping her fork against her plate, nerves jumping all over the place. She’s not sure how much Nika knows, being Paige’s closest friend and her go-to confidant, but she thinks that she’d be remiss to assume that Paige had said nothing about the ongoing tension between the two of them. But the curiosity in her is too intense for her to tamp down, so she asks anyways. “Thanks for putting all this together. Where’s, uh, Paige?” She winces immediately, knowing her attempts to be nonchalant had grossly failed.

She swears she sees a sliver of a smile on Nika’s lips. “She’s studying right now. Has an exam in an hour.”

“Oh, okay. Makes sense.” Azzi shovels another bite of cake into her mouth, trying to shut herself up before she says anything stupid, but as soon as she swallows, more words are escaping her mouth. “Does she know that I’m back?” God, way to play it cool. But Azzi isn’t all that shocked with herself; she’s never been good at controlling herself when it comes to a certain blue eyed blonde.

Nika’s eyes narrow. “You injure your head too?"

Azzi blinks at her.

Shaking her head, Nika jostles her arm playfully. “Of course she knows your back, dumbass. She was tracking your location and shit. Lili was about to choke her the way she kept bothering her to leave early so you wouldn’t have to wait at the airport.”

“Oh.” Azzi is stunned, the knot in her chest loosening slightly at this new piece of knowledge.

“She missed you, you know.” The older girl studies her carefully with a cocked head. “Refused to admit it, but everyone could tell. We were watching Frozen and all she could talk about was ‘Azzi loves this movie, Azzi’s favorite character is Olaf, oh Azzi laughed so hard at this scene last time we watched.'” Nika rolls her eyes affectionately at the memory. “It’s like she forgets we're your teammates and know you too."

Azzi laughs off-handedly, but inside she's frozen. What does it mean when two people can't stop staying away from each other? What does it mean when Azzi had pushed Paige away, had kept running, had hated Paige for not chasing when that was what she told her to do? Azzi thinks she would've deserved it if Paige never spoke to her again, if Paige refused to even look her in the eye. But no—here Paige was, telling people that Azzi's favorite Frozen character is Olaf, as if that wasn't the most stupidly cute thing Azzi had ever heard her do. Azzi's temples throb. What does it mean that she'd just spent an entire month trying to get rid of her feelings, listing out all the reasons why her and Paige shouldn't be together, but came right back to Storrs loving Paige just the same?

༉‧₊˚✧

The morning of her second day back at UConn, Azzi wakes up to a message from the athletic trainer requesting her to come in as soon as possible to start their rehab regimen. Groaning, Azzi throws on some booty shorts and a tank top, planning to get through the appointment as quick as possible then come back to her bed to sleep all her problems away.

When she walks in, they're wrapping up with the volleyball team, so Azz slumps down in one of the chairs to wait. Her head tips back against the wall; maybe she'll be able to catch a few minutes of rest before the trainer calls her in. She's almost nodding off when she hears a familiar hum followed by increasingly louder footsteps. Eyes flying open, she watches as Paige turns the corner and walks in, typing away on her phone. Azzi’s heart skips a beat when she realizes that she’s not wearing a shirt.

And okay, maybe she’s seen Paige in just a sports bra a million times, but what’s that saying? Time heals all wounds Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Because she swears Paige has never looked this alluring, skin gleaming with sweat, the lean muscle in her arms tensing as she walks. She has the post-workout glow, a happy haze coming off freshly released endorphins, and Azzi's hormones start firing in overdrive when Paige's shorts ride up slightly as she walks, giving a glimpse of the smooth, sinewy muscle of her thighs. It’s even worse that Azzi can just close her eyes and remember, remember the way those same thighs had felt around her hips, or had tensed up when her hand had just grazed the skin there — God fucking dammit. She’s literally falling apart on a cold metal chair in an office. Berating herself, she sits a little straighter as she waits for the inevitable.

Paige’s eyes widen slightly when she finally tucks her phone into her back pocket and meets her stare, but it’s quickly curbed into into a mask of indifference. Azzi clears her throat hesitantly, deciding to go with a small, harmless wave. But it’s awkward, God, why can’t she be normal for two fucking seconds, and she instantly regrets it.

“Hey, Azzi.” Paige’s tone is sweet, and even she seems slightly taken aback by the softness in her tone when it leaves her mouth. But slowly her lips turn into a small smile, and Azzi finds herself smiling as well. It's like two school girls seeing each other again after a long Christmas break, shy with hopeless crushes, and Jesus, Azzi had missed the innocence and blissfulness of just being a high schooler toeing the brink of this devastating and forceful thing called love.

Paige takes a furtive look around before plopping down in the seat next to Azzi. A long exhale leaves her mouth as she extends out her legs. Azzi has to physically turn her head this time in order to stop staring, trying to ignore the fact that Paige has somehow gotten tanner in the winter season. For a split second, Paige’s foot knocks against hers. Azzi is ashamed to say that the brief moment of contact sets her entire body alight with nerves. “How are you?” Paige breathes out finally.

Azzi fixes Paige with a raised eyebrow, half amused as her lips almost twitch into a smile. Normal, she reminds herself. Be normal. “Are you really trying to make small talk?”

Paige laughs a little, and Azzi pretends that the sound doesn’t send a pleasant flush through her body. She knows she’s missed Paige’s laugh, but now she realizes that maybe she’d missed being the cause of it more. “No. I’m really tryna know how you are.” The older girl heaves another big sigh, always one for dramatics. “I’m sorry for not going with the team to visit you in Virginia. Or going to your welcome back thing. I know how it looks after how our last conversation ended, but I wasn’t tryna be salty or prove a point or anything, I swear.”

Paige and Azzi have been to hell and back the past couple of months, yet through it all, the one thing that’s stayed true-blue is their honesty, at times painfully so. Azzi trusts Paige, more than anyone in the world, so she believes her without a doubt. Except she wants to know one more thing. “Would you have ever reached out though? If you hadn’t seen me here?”

Paige nibbles on her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never been good at staying away from you.” She looks away as she says this, as if she's scared to see Azzi's reaction, like she expects for it to be negative, and Azzi so badly wants to reach for her face and say me too, ask is it killing you like it's killing me?, and her hand lifts up of its own accord, and she's so close, so close to admitting everything she's always been too scared to say out loud, but then one of the trainers call for her, and Azzi stands up so quickly that the chair screeches back and almost falls over. Thankfully, Paige catches it before it does, but now Azzi can’t stop staring at her hands, big and veiny, gripping the metal like it used to grip her. She looks up, but Paige’s eyes are already on her, raking over every inch of her body, of her thighs and tummy and clavicle, like someone starved. Azzi stumbles, feeling lightheaded under the older girl's burning stare. "Gotta go,” she stutters. “I’ll - I’ll see you around.” Paige blinks rapidly then nods, as if she didn't hear her.

When Azzi has finished, she's surprised to see Paige still in the same spot as before. "Still waiting?" she questions, sitting down next to her to slide on her shoes.

"No." Paige lifts her arms and stretches, and Azzi swears she can see her v-line poking out from beneath her boxers. "Just finished up like, half an hour ago."

"Oh." Azzi loops her shoe strings together into a tight knot.

"Well, I guess I was waiting."

Azzi's hands still.

"I was waiting for you." Paige pulls the sleeve of her hoodie over her hands nervously. "Was wondering if, um, you'd be down to do something?"

"Do something?"

"Nothing weird!" Paige interrupts, a blush setting into her cheeks. "Just like, something normal. And friendly."

Azzi finishes tying her shoelaces and sits up. "That sounds good."

"Forreal?" Paige doesn't even try to hide her surprise, and Azzi winces. Is this their new reality? Her hurting Paige to the point where she sets her expectations so low that Azzi can't possibly hurt her again?

"Well, yeah." Azzi stands up and grabs her backpack, trying not to let her conflicted feelings show on her face. She's always been an open book. "When?"

"Maybe like, right now? If you're up for it. I know the rehab sessions are tiring, so no biggie if you can't."

Azzi smiles. She's tired, but she's missed Paige, and she's standing there so eagerly she can't find it in herself to say no. "Okay. Can we get ice cream or something?"

"Whatever you want, princess," Paige teases, then she seems to realize how flirtatious her tone sounds and she immediately shuts up. An awkward silence falls between them and Azzi inwardly groans.

"You're weird," Azzi says. Then she punches Paige in the shoulder and starts walking. "Catch up."

"So, like..." Paige stuffs her hands into her pockets, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "Like, I know you're a strong and independent woman and shit."

"And shit?" Azzi echoes, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yeah. And that you can handle your own."

Azzi narrows her eyes. "I can."

"Yup." Paige nods vigorously in agreement. "But like, your backpack looks big as hell. And you're lowkey tilting to your right when you walk. And like, I'm not even carrying anything, so it might be easier for you if I just take your backpack."

Azzi scratches her head. "You did all that buildup to ask if you could carry my backpack?"

Paige flushes an even darker red. "No! I mean, yeah," she laments. "But like, not in a girlfriend way like we used to. Not like, we were girlfriends or anything." Paige groans at herself. "But like in a friendly, your knee is hurt and I wanna help, kinda way. You know?" When Azzi stares at her again, she backtracks, "I just — I don't wanna do anything that makes you think I'm trying get with you, okay? I wanna be a good friend."

Azzi smiles softly. "Don't overthink it." She slips off the strap and pushes her bag into Paige's chest, who accepts it with a grin. "I'm actually insulted you didn't ask earlier."

"Alright, whatever," Paige grumbles, then mumbles "princess" again, under her breath, but it's not awkward this time, and Azzi shoves her and they both laugh, arms brushing as they walk side by side, admittedly a little closer than they should be.

"What should I get?" Azzi muses, her finger skimming over the glass as she stares at all the different flavors.

"You always spend thirty minutes debating just to end up always getting the same thing," Paige accuses. She quickly scans the menu before flagging down the attention of the worker. "A cone with two scoops of vanilla and a cup with two scoops of cotton candy, please."

"Hey!" Azzi objects. "You didn't even give me a choice to decide!"

"I gave myself the choice of choosing between happiness or waiting two days for you to decide," Paige shoots back.

"You never know." Azzi crosses her arms pointedly. "This could've been the day I finally decided to try banana."

"Be so for real right now, Azzi," Paige groans. "You don't even like normal bananas."

"I fucking love bananas so I don't even know what you're talking about." Azzi turns away, pretending to be upset, when she feels hands skim her waist.

"Don't be mad, Az." Paige's hands squeeze a little, and Azzi lets out a small little sigh at the feeling of finally being touched by her after so long. "Come on, lemme see that pretty face," she prods. The younger girl turns around, and suddenly their faces are close. Too close.

Paige immediately takes a step back, her hands jerking away from Azzi's waist as if they'd just been burned. Azzi looks at her, confused at the sudden motion, but they're disrupted by the worker calling out Paige's name.

They walk back to Azzi's apartment, eating their ice cream, but the tension is too palpable for them to ignore anymore. Azzi's heart clenches when Paige shifts away when their elbows almost brush as they walk silently, so far from how they'd been pressed together an hour earlier. You have no right to be upset, she reminds herself. But her heart has never really followed her mind, and so she's upset anyways.

"Thanks for coming." Paige tosses her empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash can and turns to face Azzi. "I had fun."

"I did too." Azzi ducks her head. "Thank you for paying."

Blue eyes shine brightly at her. "Of course."

Azzi unlocks the door as Paige leans against the opposite wall, watching her. As her key slots into the door, memories flood of Paige wrapping her arms around her waist, chin digging affectionately into Azzi's shoulder as she'd opened the door, and they'd stumble in together, giggling like fools.

But she turns around, and Paige's hands are still in her pockets, too far to touch even if she'd reached out. "Bye," Azzi says. "Walk safe."

Paige nods. "See you."

༉‧₊˚✧

Things almost return to normal, except for the fact that Paige's refusal to touch her doesn't stop that night. No brushing away a curl for her when she's lifting and her hair falls over her eyes, no hand resting on her lower back, no contact between their thighs whenever they sit together. When Azzi invites Paige over for a movie night, just the two of them, in hopes of restoring their friendship, Paige is overly polite, conversing like normal but maintaining a respectful distance of at least two feet at all times. But Azzi is optimistic, even though she doesn't feel happy. Paige is doing everything she asked her to — tamping down her feelings (while Azzi's, if anything, are getting more out of control), staying respectful, keeping their boundaries. So why does Azzi still feel so empty?

It's a Friday night when she gets a text from Nika with the message "You've been too stressed lately...let's get lit" and an address attached.

When Azzi enters the bar with Aaliyah and spots a familiar blonde by Nika, she curses, knowing by now that her, Paige, and alcohol don't make a good combination.

But honestly, this really isn't even her fault. She hadn't even known Paige would be at this random ass bar half an hour away from Storrs. I mean sure, it made sense, since Nika was the one who'd invited Azzi and Paige tagged along with Nika almost everywhere as her self-declared twin, but still. How could've Azzi really, surely known?

Azzi immediately knows that Paige is already too far gone when the blonde approaches her with a dopey, tired smile, arms stretched wide for a hug. Azzi reciprocates loosely, hands patting her back before falling back to her side.

She immediately accepts a shot from Aaliyah once Paige leaves, determined to forget about her for one night, except Paige had apparently just gone to the bathroom and was right back within minutes, arm slipping through Azzi's easily, like she'd always belonged there. Azzi sighs. It's not easy to forget someone that's attached to you, and Paige is doing just that, refusing to leave her side for even a second throughout the entire night.

Aaliyah quirks an eyebrow at them. "This should be good," she mutters to Nika, who only smirks in return.

“You drank too much,” Azzi chides Paige as she sits in a bar stool, head tucked into the crook of Azzi’s shoulder while Azzi stands between her legs. But the dark haired girl has always been a softie for drunk, clingy Paige, so she doesn’t push her away like she know she should, instead pulling her closer and resting her cheek to the top of the older girl's head.

"Can I tell you something?" Paige whispers out of the blue.

Azzi strokes her fingers through her hair, enjoying the way the alcohol has made her feel ten times lighter. "Mm."

“Missed you,” Paige whispers. “Packed my bags three different times. Got into my car every single one of those times and was this close to driving all the way to you.” Paige holds up her pointer and thumb finger, pinching them together so that they’re almost touching. "Had my fucking maps navving to your address and all." Then she falls back into Azzi, as if that small action had exhausted her, and tiredly nuzzles her face into her neck. “But then I'd remember the look on your face—and I knew that I couldn’t—but shit, Azzi, I was thinking about you the whole time. Couldn’t stop if I tried. Killed me not being able to talk to my best friend.” Paige's words slur together, but there's a raw honesty in the way she says it so earnestly.

“Did you ever hate me?” The question slips out of Azzi's mouth before she can stop it. She tenses as she waits for the answer.

“Could never hate you, Azzi. Look at you. So fuckin perfect and sweet and pretty, pretty, pretty.” Paige presses a smacking kiss to her shoulder, and although her mouth and Azzi's skin are separated by multiple layers of clothing, somehow the desperation with which Paige mouths at her over her jacket, the way her eyes linger unashamedly on Azzi's face, is far more intimate than anything they’ve ever done before.

Azzi doesn't know how they end back on campus, how they end up in her room. She must be more intoxicated than she thought, even though she only had a couple of drinks. She undresses into her pajamas, and Paige sits on the bed, watching with glazed over eyes.

She makes quick work of her top, throwing it to the side. Thankfully she chose to wear her nice bra, not one of her frayed sports ones. Next is her shorts; she yanks her zipper, but to no avail. It's caught on the denim of her jeans. And she know she could probably fix it if she twisted just a little bit harder, but the way Paige is looking at her, and the way she aches to feel Paige's touch, has her calling her over, voice raspy and breathless. "Can you help me? It's stuck."

Paige's fingers make nimble work of the zipper. When it's pulled all the way down, exposing the white of Azzi's underwear along with the soft skin of her lower tummy, she swears and looks up, meeting Azzi's eyes. "Fuck, Az," she says, voice low and heated. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Azzi subconciously pushes her hips forward, and a strangled sound leaves Paige's throat as her hands press into the groove of her hip, fingers tense and trembling against the denim of her shorts. They haven't even had skin to skin contact, and Paige is already gone. “Azzi,” she begs roughly. “Tell me to stop.”

Azzi doesn’t tell her to stop. She doesn’t tell her that her touch feels like the most right thing in the world. She doesn't tell her that she can't remember why she ever let Paige go, when Paige looks at her like she's the only person in the goddamn world. Azzi doesn't say anything, instead covering Paige’s hand with her own, guiding it up past the safety of her clothes and onto her waist. Paige's fingers splay out against her ribs. They’re cold, and Azzi shivers.

"Don't stop," she whispers, and Paige moves forward, mouth fitting on Azzi's so perfectly she forgets how to breathe. Her tongue, wet and curious, brushes Azzi’s bottom lip, and Azzi’s lips part. They’ve never kissed like this — slow, soft, relishing in each other’s taste. It's always been heated, desperate, but now it feels like they're getting lost in each other before they lose each other completely.

Azzi forgets her shorts are still unzipped until Paige's hand falls back on, tracing the waistband and then her belly button. “Can I touch?”

Azzi nods, guiding Paige to kneel down on the carpet before her. Her best friend kisses her piercing, then licks at the skin around it, wet open mouthed kisses that have Azzi grabbing her head and moving it closer to her skin, chasing the feeling of more, more, more.

“My girl,” Paige slurs as she makes her way down her stomach. “My fuckin girl.”

The pet name slips out, and Azzi used to hate it when guys called her ridiculous names like those, but when it comes out of Paige's mouth, lovely and honeyed, she realizes just how much she loves it. And not just the way it sounds, but how everything Paige does always feels so much sweeter than from anyone else. She grabs Paige's face and pulls her up, kissing her hard, and they're making out for a few minutes before Paige puts a hand on Azzi’s chest, gently separating the two of them. She can feel Paige's heart pounding through her chest, matching her own erratic heart beat.

"Why'd you stop?" Azzi says, chasing Paige's lips, but Paige strokes her chin.

"Azzi, you're crying," Paige whispers, and only now does Azzi see the concern pooling in her eyes. Her thumb brushes ever so gently across the younger girl's cheekbone, coming away glistening with a tear drop.

“No." Azzi shakes her head. "I’m sorry," she chokes out.

“Baby.” Paige’s voice is tender and soft and worn, like it’s been on the tip of her tongue, waiting to escape her mouth and sound so perfect. “What’re you sorry for?”

“For running away."

The blonde inhales, thumb still rubbing soft circles on Azzi's cheek.

"For being too scared."

“Azzi."

Azzi leans forward. The tip of her nose brushes against Paige’s, and she hears the older girl let out a whimper. “You love me?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“I do.” Paige’s thumb strokes across her skin, across the bottom of her shorts. “God, you know I do.”

“Good. Because I love you.” Azzi's lips brush the corner of the older girl's mouth, fleetingly, and Paige can only stare at her as her heart thumps faster, all her jagged edges softening and melting away.

“You were right. I was scared before.” Azzi presses a kiss to the other corner of Paige’s mouth. “And I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You have.”

“And I’m dumb and I’m selfish, and it probably won’t be the last time I hurt you because somehow I always manage to say and do the wrong thing.”

Paige half laughs, half sobs. “Only sometimes.”

"But if it's not too late," Azzi kisses the little scar above her eyebrow, then the bridge of her nose, "I want to try."

"You want to try?"

"You're worth it." Azzi presses one long kiss to her forehead, cupping her head in her palms. "You're worth everything."

"Do you mean it?" Paige's fingertips graze her wrists, voice strained. "Cause I know I'm drunk, but you're drunk too. And—and I don't think I can take waking up in an empty bed. I can't handle another fight, Azzi. I can't."

"That's the truest thing I've ever said," Azzi promises fiercely. "I swear to you."

"Okay." Her lips find the inner softness of Azzi's wrists, kissing the skin there. "I trust you."

"You trust me?" Azzi can't help but be a little wondrous that through it all, Paige is so willing to give her such a big piece of herself.

"I trust you and I love you and I want you." Paige reaches for her waist, movements slow and reverent. "Can I show you?" Her voice is soft, trembling, vulnerable, eyes searching Azzi’s.

Azzi's pulse skips a beat. Her grip tightens on Paige’s shoulder, fingers digging into her skin with pure desire that sets every part of her body aflame. “Show me.”

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #pazzi fic #fluff #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd

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casuallyanidiot · 11 months ago

Text

Imagine Being stuck in the novel of a Yandere author...

Kina a soft continuation of this post.

tw. yandere, forced relationship, cosmic (?) horror

You get hit by a truck and end up in a story! Fortunately you're not the villainess destined to die a horrible fate. In fact, you get the luxury of being the main character and getting the hopeful happy end. Unfortunately, you don't recognize any of the plot points or the names of anything.

That part of it sucks, but you figure you could just follow how you assumed the story would go.

But you find it strange how much the male lead looks like that creepy guy from your work. There's a weird pit in your stomach when he sung your praises, and you can't help but recoil a bit in disgust when he kisses your hand. You know that it's your role in this story to end up with this guy, but geez he's so weird. If the two of you weren't in some weird historical fantasy world, you were sure that he would constantly be glued to your side.

Then you realize that, oh, hey you don't actually have to stick in the direction the plot of this world is trying to lead you in.

You find that the Northern Duke is quite cute, actually, and though he isn't as detailed as some of the other characters that were probably focused on more in the novel, he's still sweet enough. So, when the Male lead proposes to you, you politely reject him and run off to be with your new lover.

But when you arrive at the Duke's estate, you find that he's... the male lead?!

"You're not- how are you here?!" You say with narrowed eyes. The male lead merely smiles at you, if not a little confused. "My love? What are you talking about? Am I not your beloved Duke?" He laughs and spread his arms wide as if to embrace you. His skin feels colder than before for some reason, though you try to brush it off.

Your life in his estate was extremely strange from then on. It was like no one else could tell that the Duke had been replaced. He looked and acted completely different from before, and when you asked the staff about it, they looked at you as if you were the crazy one. They suggested that perhaps the two men were more alike than you initially thought, and that you should focus instead on settling into your role as his happy, unquestioning spouse. You tried not to frown, but with the way their eyes glazed over anytime you began to ask too many questions, you didn't think it mattered if they saw or not.

Your new fiancé was rather clingy. Annoyingly so. You had been trying to stand his lecherous touches and less than innocent advances for weeks now, to believe that perhaps you were crazy and had somehow mistaken the Duke and the Male lead for each other like everyone said you had. That it was just some byproduct of getting reincarnated.

But then you ended up speaking to a gardener.

She was obviously just a background character, one that probably wasn't even meant to be mentioned in the pages of this novel. She didn't even have a face, and her voice was disjointed and soft. When she spoke, her words echoed in the back of your brain as if she wasn't even meant to speak.

"The lord? He's been acting strange ever since you arrived here my lady," She said. You had to blink to make sure you heard her. To make sure she was actually there. "And his face doesn't look quite right. I'm glad you noticed, my lady. Someone has to."

When you sought her out the next day, she had disappeared without a trace.

You decided that whatever was happening with the estate, the Duke and his servants, was far too strange for you to ignore. Perhaps you had strayed far too much from the original plot and setting of the novel. Either way, it wasn't worth all the trouble. Not when the very thing you sought to avoid with the male lead seemed to follow you. Not when the world seemed to be shifting to try and keep you in the plot.

Wherever you went from then on, You would keep seeing the male lead appear. But it was the same as with the Duke. A character that was unique in appearance and personality would suddenly morph into him. And no one would notice. It was like it was completely normal to have dozens of copies of the same man occupying different names and roles.

You feel insane, like you've broken something in the world.

It's one night where you finally snap and stab one of the weird versions of the male lead where you find out the truth. You're panting and covered in blood, a knife gripped in your shaking hand. There's a manic relief that grasps you right then and there. Because, these characters aren't actually alive. They can't be. Not when they all have the same exact face and voice, smiling at you with empty eyes and words that don't feel like anyone would actually say them if this weren't a book.

You let out a sob of relief that for once you're not being reminded of the man who lurked around the corners of your pervious life. He made your skin crawl with the constant muttering under his breath, with the way he watched you. You did not want to see him in these, awful, awful mockeries of real people.

All you want to do, is have a happily ever after in this stupid novel.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a noise that's halfway between a sob and a laugh. The figure shambles up, seemingly unaffected by the wound in it's side. The face of the male lead, no, of that awful wannabe author, stares back at you without a care in the world.

"Did you get it out of your system? [Name]?" It asks you with a polite smile that doesn't reach the eyes and a tilt to the head.

You collapse to the ground, whimpering as the figure approaches you and pats you on the head. It said your name. Not the main character's name, your name from the real world. You swallow thickly as the puppet of a character kneels down with stilted motions. It's like every little movement is being directly controlled right now. As if it's being written right before your eyes.

"Are you ready to behave now?" It asks like you're some scared pet, and not a living, breathing thing that's being played with like a doll.

Your lips tremble as you nod. You feel something in your mind shatter as you realize that the happy ending written for this world was definitely not intended for you.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere male #yandere x you #tw yandere #my writing #yandere author #yandere isekai #isekai #horror #yandere x y/n #yandere male lead #fanfic writing #yandere boy #yandere boyfriend

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foreveia · 6 months ago

Text

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t.

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics.

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it.

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less.

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction.

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest.

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep.

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed.

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him.

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it.

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

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moonlight-prose · 7 days ago

Text

melt with you

a/n: my brain has been fried by how pretty and kind and perfect this man is. i wrote this out of pure self indulgence, but also that kitchen scene has been playing on a constant loop in my head. i can't get over just how sweet he is (but also i wish that was me i really do). this took so long to write because i typed it out on my phone and honestly i feel like it’s so bad. but i hope you guys enjoy!

summary: clark kent was a man of many talents. being the chef - the man who could whip up enough food to keep you sated and full for till the sun crested over the horizon and peeked through his windows - was one of them. but you were...a mess in the kitchen. so he decides to help.

word count: 2.8k

pairing: clark kent x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, food/cooking, banter that has me clutching my heart, flirting, teasing, pure fluff, romance, established relationship, reader knows he's superman, p in v sex, gratuitous smut, pwp really.

The rate at which pancakes burned by your hand would go down in the history books. Impossible yet entirely plausible all the same. Batter clung to the edge of your palm, coating the handle of a wooden spoon in a dried layer that you’d spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to scrape off with your blunt nail.

The kitchen resembled a war zone. Yet the blood and loss of life seemed to be replaced in favor of burnt dough and bacon that never fried quite right. And there you were…trying once more to pour with ease as he did one week ago. He moved fluidly through this small space—shifting as if he’d become an extension of the stove, a good natured friend to the dribbles of white batter that slid out of the bowl without difficulty.

Or perhaps he had that skill to make everything look utterly perfect. Years and years of cooking in a kitchen at home—his Ma watching with wary eyes and pursed lips—allotted to moments like this.

How could you compare?

The door creaked as it always did, even as he coated the hinges in enough oil to stain his Smallville t-shirt, and you felt the wince creep along a stiff spine at the heavy thud of his worn oxfords. Your nerves were shot as the scent of burnt food permeated the kitchen air, and before you could form somewhat of an explanation, he was behind you. The spoon plopped with altruistic motives back into a half filled bowl decorated with a familiar emblem he wore across his broad chest: a birthday gift from his Ma. But the damage was done.

“I spend an extra hour watching Perry White rip my article to shreds and you…try to burn down my kitchen?”

You sucked in a breath that tasted of charred butter still stuck to the pan. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Consider me shocked.” Removing the bowl from your tight grip, he eyed the stove that sizzled with the last remaining pancake. It looked like a square; he found it endearing. “You’re making me breakfast for dinner,” he mumbled, lips twisting into a grin—dimples caving into the sides of his cheeks deep enough to fit your thumb.

“You said it’s your favorite and I’ve never tried pancakes before. Although I’m probably better off just doing eggs-”

“You’re perfect,” he sighed—blue eyes dragging you closer to the calm waters that quickly became your safe haven.

“But I burned the food.”

“I’ll eat it anyways.”

A noise of disbelief broke through your stifled grin. “I’m pretty sure that’s extremely unsanitary.”

He shrugged. “Don’t care.”

“Clark you can’t eat burnt food just cause I made it-”

Whatever words you had left to say died at the back of your throat when he kissed you. Slow enough to taste his hesitancy on the tip of your tongue, a broad hand pressed to the peek of soft skin between your jeans and top. But his touch is all it would ever take to fall into his chest, your fingers twisting into the mussed curls at the back of his head. A soft breath left to escape against his cheek, his tongue teasing along a wet bottom lip.

Clark wasn’t forward like this most days. In fact you could barely get him to touch you with such need in the first few weeks of dating. Only for his walls to unravel, practically collapse to the ground, that first night together. Your hands dragging his large frame into the tiny space of a singular bedroom housed in an apartment you rarely saw nowadays.

A sharp inhale, tightened grip at the nape of your neck, and Clark strode forward. One step after another until your back collided gently with the cabinets at the edge of his counter.

“I made a mess in here,” you mumbled, a shine of spit along his parted lips all you could find yourself fixating on. “Need to clean it-”

“I’ll do it later,” he rushed out.

Strong hands—palms that saved people, lifted buildings, and held the whole of Metropolis—gripped your thighs, depositing you on the only side of the counter you hadn’t managed to destroy. Breath came in sparse gasps as his tongue met yours, warm hands sliding beneath the top you managed not to stain. It came undone with ease, thick fingers tugging at each silvered button along the front—his teeth digging into your lip with a groan you felt press against your hammering heart.

He much preferred a bed, the ability to spread you wide along his comforter—take his time between your legs. To put the extraordinary talent of holding his breath to use in favor of coating his tongue with your sticky sweetness. He could smell you in between the rushed kisses and moans swallowed, the heady tang burned his senses—made him dizzy.

There was little in the world that made him crumple to his knees. You remained the very thing that made him beg. Whimpers and pleas falling past bruised lips for just a taste—enough to keep him alive.

For now the counter would do. If just to hear you whine beneath the cup of his hands on your breasts wrapped in black lace, your chest heaving as he tugged the white fabric off your body.

“Clark,” you rasped, pulling at his belt with shaky hands and hazy eyes.

He grinned and you were done for. “I know sweetheart. You need it.”

“I do.”

Pinching your chin he tilted your face up, his blue eyes dark with the raging storm of need that pressed hard and thick on the inside of his slacks. You could practically taste him at the back of your tongue—the way he’d stretch you, push you past the limit of what you once thought was all you could take.

For him you’d take it all. You would break and bend every limb of your body to feel him stuff his way into your cunt.

Clark could see it from the lazed smile on your lips, the berry gloss you wore now smeared along your chin. Its taste lingered with the flavor of you.

“I was thinkin’ about you at work,” he mumbled into the skin of your neck, his hand working at the button of your jeans. “Couldn’t get my mind off the other night.”

The midnight snack that consisted of two bowls of cereal left discarded in the sink in favor of bending you over the arm of the couch. A permanent warmth that lingered for hours after he gripped your hips and sucked at your clit with rasped moans. It pulled at you now. That unforgiving need; tore at your fluttering stomach when he smiled into the kiss.

“And here I thought you’re hard at work.”

“I was.”

Your hand landed with a dull thud against his unbreakable chest, his laughter rippling into your mouth and body caging you in further.

Heat curled low at your spine while his hand curled beneath denim and lace—fingers catching on the slick that pooled along the thin fabric. He groaned, wet and broken, into your mouth, his brows furrowed and tongue a hot press against your own.

This. The soft touch only he could give, even as his body held enough strength to break you, was what you ached for. That desperate longing which ate at your very being, consuming all it could.

Two fingers pressed between slick folds, dragging up along your throbbing clit and your mind went white. “Oh f-fuck.”

“You’re so wet.” His voice dripped with awe. “Wow. Can I taste you?”

Your hips jerked, teeth clamping into an already bruised lip. “Later,” you gasped, canting into his palm. “Please Clark. Need you to fuck me.”

Crimson flushed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck until you swore you could peek it beneath his white button down. A rosy hue that any other time would have made you smile, press a teasing kiss to the apple of his cheek. His fingers sliding into you with a soft rumbled moan dragged you back beneath the waters—dark blue gleaming beneath black lashes.

Any other day he’d hook your thighs over his shoulders and bury his tongue as far as he could reach, drinking you down with a pleased hum. Some days he was afraid he’d never get enough. Even if he knew it was already true.

You ruined him with one look. Tore the remnants of willpower from his chest and brandished it with a smile. He prided himself on it—his ability to keep himself in check, hold back every ounce of Kryptonian strength gathered in his bunched muscles—until he met you.

“Gotta prep you honey.” The soft whine dropped his shoulders, his teeth grazing the edge of your jaw. Your heart echoed like thunder in a storm, raging with need and playing his favorite tune.

The sound of you. Of the blood in your veins, the pulse beneath your wrist and throat, the salt on your skin from the light sheen of sweat. He felt overwhelmed, unable to focus on just one thing. But the way your walls clung to his fingers, sucking them back in with each pump dragged him further beneath each sensation. The taste of you in the air beyond the food you burned.

He curled his fingers and watched your back arch, a high pitched cry bubbling to the surface. Fingers clawed at his shirt and knees hitched up to his waist as he pressed further, breathing hot against your chest.

“I’m gonna cum-” you gasped. “Fuck Clark! Right there. D-Don’t stop.”

“I’d never stop,” he mumbled. “Let me have it sweetheart. Please.”

Crying out against his lips, you felt it sever in two. That unforgiving bliss he gave you. Burning along each vein and trembling limb. You grinded against the heel of his hand, fingers clasped tight over his wrist as he kept fucking going. Pushing you over the edge until all you knew was the taste of him on your lips. The feel of his thick fingers spreading you open until slick dripped down and coated his palm.

“So beautiful.” His tone dripped reverence. Even as he undid his belt, the clink loud enough to draw your attention.

“Can I?” you whispered, throat nearly raw.

He froze, eyes flashing up and mouth parted on a gasp. “Y-Yeah. You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Your lips found his, teeth gently tugging as he gripped the counter beside you. Clark had felt your touch before. Knew what came with your gentle nature. But each time nearly threw him over the ledge—his breath coming in shuddered gasps, fingers denting marble when your thumb spread along his tip.

“So pretty,” you mumbled through a wet kiss you felt down to your toes.

His heart skipped, mouth slanting hard against yours until you could feel the curve of his nose on your cheek. He longed for this moment since he left far earlier than either of you expected. The intimacy of having you—the two of you intertwined beneath the glow of kitchen lights and batter that still clung to your jeans.

Twisting your wrist until the wet sound of your hand pumping his cock blared in his ears, pulled the frail strand of control taut. He thrusted up into your grip, unable to pull away from giving you kiss after kiss.

“I can’t breathe Clark,” you gasped, tugging at his curls and watching as his once clear vision glazed over—red cheeks swimming in your view.

“So hold it.” He grinned and you felt your pulse grow between your legs, the counter no doubt wet from where you sat.

“Not everyone can hold their breath for hours.”

“I’ll breathe for the both of us.”

“Kent-”

“Just one more,” he implored.

All it took was a look and he had you. With glistening eyes and a soft pout he swore only existed because of you. His lips found yours, hands gripping your hips to tilt you back, and with a shift you felt his cock tap against your folds.

Your thighs trembled where they sat at his hips as he dragged through your slick. Thrusting messily with pained whines muffled into the heat of your mouth.

“Let me-” Guiding him close you spread your thighs wide enough to pinch. But you’d take it all. Every sore muscle and aching nerve. “Oh.”

The stretch fractured pieces of your mind as he pushed up to the hilt, slow at first with puffed air against your cheek. And you clung to him. Dug your nails into impenetrable skin with each small jolt of his hips into yours.

“You’re perfect.” His words barely registered.

Full. You felt impossibly full of him, how he kissed at your neck and cupped your ass. Every sense was attuned to the man before you—the god that longed for your touch.

Sometimes it felt fucking surreal. Tonight you relished the way his hips stuttered when you kissed at his jaw. An arm slung around his shoulders and hand at his back kept you stable, but Clark would never let you fall. He’d catch you until the end of time.

“I need more,” you pressed into the curve of his jaw.

Clark paused, eyes flitting between your dazed look and the pretty mess between your thighs. You could nearly see him grasp for words, watched in delight as he slowly dragged himself back to the surface. A man of such power, entirely debilitated by the feel of your wet cunt.

It almost made you smile.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he rushed out, thumb kneading into the plush of your hip.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Sweetheart-”

You shut out his doubt with a searing kiss, hips shifting to fuck yourself the best you could. “I’m yours baby. Do whatever you want. Please Clark. I need it. I need you.”

What little breath he could retain quickly became as a shuddered choke. Maybe you were desperate for it. The feel of his cock carving a space meant solely for him, ramming into a bliss you didn’t know humans could experience.

He tested your words with a thrust, pulling out slowly and steady with a deep groan you felt in your stomach. Before shoving back in—his balls a slapping against your sopping cunt.

“Yes-” Your head fell back, eyes rolling and fingers scrabbling along his forearms. “R-Right there baby.”

In between your blurred gaze and quick breaths you caught his smile. White teeth flashing porcelain in the light as they sunk into his lip. Those piercing blue eyes fixed on the way he sunk into you, the creamed ring around his cock proof that you got exactly what you wanted. He’d bare his soul to kryptonite if you asked, give you the moon and sun and every star he could find.

All to keep your heart beating that angelic beat.

“Can feel you,” he said. “Are you-”

You frantically nodded. “Uh-huh-”

“Give it to me.” His shoulders dropped, forehead a hard press against your own. “I want it sweetheart.”

Your thighs shook, stomach coiled hard enough to hurt, but you couldn’t get enough. You’d never have your fill. And he knew this. He knew it from the moment he met you.

The soft press of his thumb on your clit broke you with a sharp cry. “Oh fuck Clark!”

“There you go,” he mumbled, the sticky thwack of his hips against yours was loud enough to echo off the apartment walls—his ears filled entirely with you. “Where? Where d’you want it?”

His thumb still worked you over, dragging it out long enough to deafen everything but him. “Inside.”

He came with a shout of your name muffled against your shoulder, his hand guiding your hips to move with him. Yanking on his curls was an accident, but the guttural moan he gave as he fucked his cum into you kept your hand from moving.

“I can’t move,” you whispered, the sore muscles in your legs now flaring to life. An unfortunate side effect of having your hero boyfriend fuck you within an inch of your life.

He laughed, voice low and filled with a rasp you would later replay when he was gone. “Where to?”

“Hmm.” You’d never be accustomed to his grip, how he hoisted you up as he still remained inside your fluttering walls. “The bed,” you affirmed.

The dimples peeked through in the dark of his room. “For sleep?”

His lips tasted like the faintest hint of cinnamon—the bread he liked no doubt his dessert earlier. “I thought you wanted a taste.”

The rumble in his chest was enough of an answer for you. He kissed you as if time ceased to exist. Merely a figment as you wrapped your arms around his neck—the cool of his sheets brushing along your back. He set you down with a pleased grunt, his fingers toying with the clothes he still wore. And you were more than happy to oblige.

The disaster in the kitchen could wait. To be loved by him couldn’t.

#clark kent x f!reader #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent smut #clark kent #superman x reader #superman x you #my writing

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amomentsescape · 2 years ago

Note

can I also request to yandere slashers and sinclair brothers with a pregnant reader that gets kidnapped if thats ok? Thank you hope im not requesting too much, no pressure to make it 😅

Yandere! Slashers with Pregnant Reader That Gets Kidnapped

Yandere! Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, Bo, & Lester

Warnings: Yandere behavior, mentions of pregnancy, typical Slasher behavior

A/N: No worries! Thank you for requesting :) I also apologize if my last couple of Slasher fics have been a bit short. I've been stuck in a brain fog this past week.

Freddy Krueger

The moment Freddy sees you gone, he just laughs

You couldn't be that stupid to just leave, could you?

You can't escape him when he can show up at any point no matter where you are

However, him popping up and seeing you being held hostage by someone else...

Freddy's smile fades

Of course you wouldn't leave him

But who dares to have put you and his child at risk?

The moment he sees them, he doesn't even care

He immediately slashes their throat and picks you up, not wasting any time taking you back to where you belong

Michael Myers

The kidnapper was careless

Don't they know that Michael would walk to the ends of the earth for you and his child?

His abilities know no bounds

He finds your location within a single night

All you can hear at first are screams and splatters, not sure what is going on outside your little room

But the moment you see Michael, you immediately relax

You weren't sure he would come for you

But here he was

And without a word, he has you lifted in his bloody arms as he walks you back home

Just know he won't be letting you out of his sight at all now

Jason Voorhees

He can hear your screams echo throughout the woods

He knows this area like the back of his hand anyways, so it doesn't take long to locate you

The way you're holding onto your stomach, trying to protect the child from any harm, has Jason seeing nothing but red

He doesn't even want to fool around with the assailant

His machete is plunged into the top of their head before they can even let out a scream

His mood does a complete 180 when he looks back to you, gently taking you in his arms to make sure you weren't hurt

He just sits with you on the ground for a while, rocking you in his arms

He's attempting to comfort you, but there's a part of him that's also trying to comfort himself

Thomas Hewitt

When he comes home to the door wide open, he immediately panics

You didn't leave him... did you?

He thought you were finally happy

Teary eyed and angered, Thomas storms out into the night to look for you

He had wandered pretty far into the area when he heard your screams

Some crazy family seemed to have taken you from your home

Your screams were immediately cut off by the sound of a chainsaw, cutting right into the door

Your kidnappers jumped up and attempted to flee, but Thomas was quick to catch up

You had your ears covered and your eyes tightly shut when he came back in

He gently pulled your hands down and lifted you up

He carried you home without any hesitation

Bubba Sawyer

The screams of devastation he lets out can literally be heard from miles around

Doesn't even want to consider that you left him

You've been so good the last few months

There's no way you would have just left like this

After an hour of him frantically searching around the area, he can finally hear your voice

You were talking to the stranger, asking them to please let you go

The fact that they just kept ignoring you made Bubba even more angry

They only finally looked up when they heard the revving of his chainsaw

They didn't even have time to flee before they were cut in half

He runs over to you quickly, placing one hand on your stomach and the other on the side of your face

He was blubbering, promising you he'll do better next time

Brahms Heelshire

Well this was an incredibly stupid decision on their part

Don't they know that Brahms doesn't ever leave the house?

And wherever you are, he will be too

The kidnapper doesn't even make it out the door with you

The moment Brahms hears your screams, it's over

He emerges from the wall and grabs the kidnapper

You watch as Brahms slams the person's head into the wall, over and over again until they're just a bloody pulp

He storms over to you and grabs you roughly, looking your body over to make sure you and the baby weren't hurt

He traps you in bed with him for the rest of the night

His arms act as a cage, not letting you up for anything

Norman Bates

Everything is a bit of a blur

He comes home to the place ransacked, you nowhere in sight

You weren't reckless

He knows you wouldn't have done this

He turns to go search for you, and that's when things go black

He finally comes to with you crying in his arms on a dirty floor

An unrecognizable body lays beside him, blood pooling everywhere

But you and his child are safe

That's all that matters now

And he'll make sure nothing like this ever happens again

Billy Loomis

Billy is immediately in a rage when he sees you're gone

There is no way you're going to leave him

Never

He'll break into every house in this town if he has to

And that's just what he does

It's only after the 7th house that he finds you tied up to a chair

Oh you poor thing

Of course you didn't leave him

The scene before you quickly becomes bloody

A few bodies lie splattered on the floor, Billy tending to the rope around you

He apologizes for letting this happen and kisses you deeply

It's only later that night you hear of 7 families that had been found slashed in their own homes

There really is no limit when it comes to Billy

Stu Macher

He has a mental breakdown when he sees that you're gone

Goes into a fit of hysterical laughter as he reaches for his knife

He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will if he must

When he hears a scream echo not too far from where he was searching, he sprints to it

And when he sees you being held by some random person, Stu's crazed smile finally drops

He lunges, and things go out of control

Stu is left with a few cuts and bruises, but he doesn't care

He immediately looks you over and makes sure you're not hurt

When he's content, he takes you home and cuddles up with you on the couch, bloody clothes and all

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent doesn't like to venture too far from home, but he'll do it for you

Seeing that you're gone makes him assume the worse

He marches outside the home, already searching every nook and cranny of this desolate place

And it works out in his favor once he sees you in an old building, knocked unconscious

He smashed his way through the window immediately

The attackers come running towards him, but he was quick to act

You awoke to a bloody mess beside you and a worried Vincent knelt in front of you

He rests his hands on your stomach and you nod, letting him know you and the baby are okay

He's content with this and wraps you in his arms to take you back home

Bo Sinclair

If he can't have you, no one can

When he's sees you're gone, he assumes you left just like he knew you were going to try

He hunts you down immediately, ready to do what needed to be done, only to see you scared and tied up

Oh, now Bo can't help the growing smile on his face

You didn't want to leave him, and now he can have fun with whoever was stupid enough to do this

Will knock them unconscious and take you both home

He'll make their death a long and painful one

But it's another addition to the wax museum

One that he is most proud of

Lester Sinclair

He instantly tears up at the idea that you left him

He almost doesn't even want to go after you, but you're also carrying his child

He can't just let you go that easily

He of course checks Ambrose first, and he considers himself lucky to have found you as soon as he did

But seeing you being held by some random person was not what he had planned

Lester's self pity quickly evolves to pure anger

He jumps in and immediately attacks, not even thinking of finding a weapon first

His adrenaline kicks in and it doesn't take long before he kills the kidnapper, suffocating them to death

He then wraps himself up with you, holding you close and apologizing over and over again

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dreamersparacosm · 1 month ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part six)

part six ; room 1247

warnings ; none!!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; fun fact i wrote the second scene half-drunk and i actually think it turned out really well so shoutout to sauvy b for always holding it down! i hope you all enjoyed your fun one week break from these two idiots <3 i have returned with my favorite microtrope of all time, and we are FINALLY getting to this new york city trip. this trip is THEE trip. if this were a movie, you would be throwing your damn popcorn at the screen, yelling "HE LOVES YOU, YOU BIG IDIOT." but this is a tumblr fanfic, so nothing of the sort will occur. new york city holds nostalgia for them. memories of their past. some deep shit like that. but realistically it's kinda like when you pass by a place you used to go to a lot as a kid and you're like oh. oh. i remember this feeling. i liked this feeling. let me stop before i spoil my own stupid ass fic! i hope you cutie patooties enjoy (and before anyone asks, those extras are on the way i SWEAR. they are pivotal to the story and will come in due time) and as always, big big love to @httpsincity for being the best beta reader of all time (and if you🫵 are interested in being one too, hit my dm's! no experience required but you must love reading and analyzing every little crumb)

series masterlist here

playlist here

wc ; 8.4k

There’s this rollercoaster called the Cyclone at Luna Park in Coney Island. You rode it for the first time when you were eleven, clutching the safety bar with a stomach full of cotton candy and your heart thudding against the walls of your ribs.

You remember going up, up, up, and then looking out at the view at the top; your dad’s beat-up Honda Civic in the parking lot, food stalls selling funnel cakes and fried oreos, the tide of the ocean receding.

You don’t really remember the down, down, down part. Your brain apparently decided that the sheer terror of hurtling towards earth at sixty miles per hour wasn't worth remembering. All that stuck was the high of being on top of the world for more than three seconds.

That’s exactly what it feels like when Jenna texts you bright and early Thursday morning. “Morning, [Y/N]! This trip is important. Very senior correspondent vibes. Enjoy New York - promotion update when you get back!!”

The exclamation points feel like confetti, like when someone texts you ‘congrats!’ and your phone immediately showers you in unwarranted iMessage effects.

Senior correspondent vibes.

You stare at the screen, grinning like an idiot, as reality comes knocking in the form of another notification. Your Uber driver, asking where the hell you are because you’ve been standing on your sidewalk for the past three minutes, clutching your phone to your chest gleefully.

I have a lot to be thankful for, you remind yourself as you get your legs working and head towards the red Sedan. For starters, Mark’s itinerary arrived yesterday and either Monroe's team is absolutely loaded (likely) or they’re dead set on treating you like royalty, because you’re staying at the Hilton in Times Square. You’re talking about the actual Hilton, with real room service and those little bottles of shampoo you’ll be stealing, not some sad little motel in Queens.

You also dragged Emma out for drinks last night and made her relive every painful second of Friday night’s events. She spent most of the time doing impersonations of Paul trying to be suave, and you laughed so hard you snorted vodka, which only made her do it again.

And because the universe decidedly doesn’t hate you after all, you’ve barely interacted with Jungkook this week. From what you heard through the grapevine, Fox has him chasing down some diplomatic crisis in Paris, so he’s been buried under deadlines and time zones.

Zero opportunities for you to think about his smell, his cheek scar, those ballpoint pens he seems to like so much, or his absolutely criminal way of complimenting women.

Everything is blissfully back on track.

Or, well, it would be. If your Uber was dropping you off at some solo spa retreat instead of Union Station, where you’re about to break your beautiful Jungkook-free streak.

The sudden urge to find a spoon and scoop your eyeballs out like ice cream creeps up on you.

Pulling out your phone, you fire back a quick response to Jenna: “Thanks, Jenna! I’ll make CNN proud this weekend.”

A little strategic ass-kissing never hurt anyone’s promotion chances.

Once the Uber finally pulls up to the station, you wrestle your overpacked bag out of the backseat (why did you bring three different blazers for a weekend trip?), tip the driver in cash because you’ve never been convinced those app tips aren’t disappearing into some void, and trudge toward the Greyhound bus.

From the outside, the bus seems mercifully empty. Monroe’s team booked you on an early morning bus to give you time to check into the hotel and mentally prepare for her press conference. The bus driver — an older man who tips his baseball cap at you — settles your nerves a little. You clamber onto the vehicle with little to no grace.

Window seat, window seat, window se…

You practically catapult your body toward the back of the bus, snatching up the last available window spot. Turns out half of America decided to head to New York at 5 AM on a Thursday.

Perfect. You plop your bag on the seat next to you like an animal marking its territory and jam your AirPods in. Spotify on immediate shuffle. There will be no stragglers, no chatty commuters taking that seat.

This is your time to stare dramatically at the passing trees and pretend you’re in an indie film.

This press conference is kind of a big deal, you’ve figured out that much. Half your week was spent with Jenna, brainstorming questions and predicting angles that Delgado and his team might spin.

You’re planning to stay unbiased, obviously. Journalistic integrity and all that. But… you’ve also started to like Monroe a little bit.

On Wednesday, when you sent her a draft paragraph for approval, she emailed back “Looks good :)” instead of “Fine.” The smiley face is a victory.

You’ve also reached this simple scientific conclusion after spending time with her: men are at the root of all evil. Men put you into scandals. Men plaster your face on the cover of the New York Times. Men are just—

Your current song gets cut short. Left AirPod violently ripped out of your ear. What the fuck?

Your head whips in the direction of the thief, ready to commit murder, and find yourself staring at Jungkook. He’s standing in the aisle wearing a Columbia sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, hair disheveled, holding your white airpod between his fingers like some audio pirate.

“I said your name like, forty times. Is this seat taken?”

“Yes,” you hiss, snatching your earbud back. “It’s taken by my bag.”

To emphasize your point, you pat your bag possessively and give him your most sinister smile. He grins back and starts sliding his backpack off his shoulder. “Jeon, don’t even think about it—”

“[Y/N].” He gestures at the packed bus around you. When you take a quick inventory, you don’t think there’s a single seat open. “This whole bus is packed. There’s not a single seat left. What am I supposed to do, sit on the floor?”

Your eyes light up. “Oh my god, can you?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I am literally not moving my bag for you.”

“Well,” he starts, and before you can stop him, he’s moving your bag to the floor and sliding into the seat beside you like he owns the place. “I just moved it for you.”

You audibly gasp. “Go ask someone to switch with you. Right now.”

“Oh, what?” He has the nerve to look amused. “Now we can’t sit next to each other?”

“Correct. We cannot.” You cross your arms over your chest and pout.

“You seemed to like it just fine last—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll hire an Etsy witch to curse your bloodline,” you interrupt, because clearly you liked a lot of questionable things last week. You also thought Red Bull tasted better than your usual Celsius, so maybe you were having some kind of out-of-body experience. Maybe you got Freaky Friday-ed.

“All I’m saying is we got along pretty well last week.” He shrugs casually.

You’ve been actively trying not to think about that, thank you very much. After extensive self-reflection (and a mild spiral), you’ve determined that your weird little dance-and-compliment session with Jungkook can be blamed entirely on three things: wine, lemon drop shots, and vodka sodas. It was a perfectly normal human reaction to alcohol poisoning.

The bus rumbles to life beneath you, and your left eye starts twitching. You’re trapped. This death trap on wheels is hauling you to New York whether you like your seatmate or not.

“Last week was a fluke.” You stare out the window, fidgeting with your rescued AirPod.

“Didn’t I tell you I like it when you’re nice to me?” he teases.

“I break out in hives if I do it for too long.” In fact, you’re breaking into them right now.

“Well, I like it.” You don’t even need to look at him to know he’s smiling cheek-to-cheek.

“I could give a rat’s ass about what you like,” you remind him.

“Mhm,” he hums, sounding annoyingly pleased with himself. He leans down and pulls his laptop out of his backpack. Finally, you think to yourself. He’ll leave you alone to brood in peace.

You’re halfway to putting your AirPod back in when he goes, “So what are you planning on asking at the press conference?”

You turn to glare at him. His eyes are particularly brown this morning, all lit up by the sunshine bleeding through the window, and they’re twinkling with mischief. “Oh, so you can steal my questions? Absolutely not.”

“I’ve got my own questions to ask.”

“Puh-lease.” You let out a disbelieving laugh. “And you think they’ll be better than mine?”

“I never said that.” He opens his laptop and starts typing in his password, and you immediately look away because you are not some kind of creep who memorizes people’s credentials. Even though your peripheral vision definitely caught what looked like numbers and maybe the word ’banana’? “I know yours will be good.”

“Compliment session expired, buddy. You’re not getting one back.”

“Not expecting one.” The laptop screen illuminates his face as he logs in. “I just think we should be working on this as a team. Technically, we’re on Monroe’s side.”

That, and you’re rooting for whatever gets you promoted.

“We’re not supposed to be on anyone’s side, Jungkook,” you sigh, because evidently you now need to explain basic journalism ethics. Did this dude actually graduate in your class at Columbia?

“I know that, dweeb.” He rolls his eyes. “But I feel kinda bad for her. Delgado seems like a dick.”

“How so?” You don’t necessarily disagree, but you’re curious where he’s going with this.

“I mean, he basically threw her under the bus, right?” His fingers hover over the keyboard. “If he actually liked her, he would’ve backed her in this whole scandal. Now he’s addicted to bringing her down during every press conference.”

You snort. “Welcome to men in politics. Population: disappointing.”

“Not all men.”

You have to physically bite your tongue to keep from cackling. “Oh, right. Because you're a saint. A shining beacon of male virtue. All hail Jungkook, our feminist king."

"I'm just saying—"

"What, that you'd handle it differently?" You turn in your seat to face him fully, because this should be entertaining. "Please, enlighten me. How would saint Jungkook navigate a political sex scandal?"

“For starters, I wouldn’t be in one.” He opens Google Docs and starts scrolling through his documents. There’s one titled ‘DELGADO IS A TOOL: AN ANALYSIS.’ “I wouldn’t put someone I actually cared about through that kind of mess.”

“That’s… actually sweet.” You pause, squirming in your seat at what you’re about to admit. “Disgusting, but sweet.”

“It’s the truth.” He glances back at you. “So, yeah, excuse me for wanting her to win this thing.”

“No, I.. I guess I get it. She does seem pretty beaten down by all this,” you agree.

She reminds you of yourself, honestly. The whole putting-on-a-brave-face thing, hiding behind whatever armor you can find because it's easier than admitting you completely misread someone. That you trusted the wrong person. Monroe doesn't deserve to be dragged through the mud like this. No woman does.

“Hand me my laptop.”

God, your moral compass is a real pain in the ass sometimes.

“What, why?” Jungkook scoots away from you. “Are you gonna whack me with it?”

“No, you moron.” You point toward your bag. “I’ll share some of my questions with you. In the name of Monroe, of course.”

“Really?” His mouth does this upward quirk thing that should not be as distracting as it is. He leans down to unzip your bag, rummaging around for your laptop.

“Don’t get cocky on me,” you warn as he hands it over. For maybe half a heartbeat, his fingers brush against yours as you both hold the laptop. His hands are warmer than you expected, and there’s a tiny callus on his thumb you can feel with your own.

He looks up at you. Little golden flecks in his eyes appear that you've somehow never noticed before.

You yank your hands back and hug the laptop to your chest before bringing it down to your lap. Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting his shoulders. Apparently you both are acting like 12-year olds now.

When you finally boot up your own Google Docs, the difference between your approach and Jungkook’s is staggering. While his document appears to be a mess of bullet points and random thoughts scattered across multiple tabs, yours is an organized masterpiece called "Monroe-Delgado Case File" with color-coded sections, chronological timelines, and cross-referenced evidence. Sometimes it genuinely baffles you that this is the same man you've been calling your archnemesis since freshman year of college.

“So, here's my strategy.” You pull up your questions document, which is obviously also color-coded. “I’m thinking I'll ease in, maybe ask some questions about her work ethic these past few months. Prove that she’s someone without him, establish her credibility.”

You scroll down to your yellow-highlighted section. “Then I’ll ask how they got involved. Professional, personal? Who made the first move?”

Jungkook makes a sound of understanding. “And that’s where we let her paint him as the villain.”

“Not quite,” You peer up from your screen. “If I’m too obvious about leading her, they’re gonna know my stance. I want to extract from her the worst parts of him without actually trying, you know? I'll ask something like 'Can you walk us through a typical conversation you'd have about policy?' Let her own answers expose his ass.”

As your eyes tilt up to meet his, you realize Jungkook is staring at you. Your stomach decides to audition for Cirque du Soleil. Obviously that’s just motion sickness from the bus.

His eyebrows are raised, cherry lips parted. A softness behind his orbs you haven’t seen in all your years of knowing him.

It’s either complete bewilderment or… no, it’s definitely bewilderment. What else could it be?

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Jungkook. Thoughts? Concerns?”

His lips split into a grin, cheeks reddening. “You, [Y/N] [Y/L/N], are a mastermind.”

A horrible flutter floats through your stomach that you want to set on fire. Since when does Jungkook recognizing your intelligence make your insides feel like a butterfly habitat?

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“If someone told me last year that you were gonna voluntarily share state secrets with me on a Greyhound bus, I would've recommended they get a psychiatric evaluation.” He smiles at his own joke, and honestly, fair point.

“Straight to the looney bin,” you agree, snorting. “Alright, so what about you? What’s your master plan?”

You’re not expecting much, but curiosity killed the cat and all that jazz.

His eyes dart around the bus like he’s looking for an escape route, lingering on the trees whizzing past the window. He tilts his laptop screen away from you as if he’s a five-year-old hiding a bad report card. “Uhhh..”

Oh, hell no.

“Jeon, I swear to god, show me right now. “ You lunge for his laptop, trying to wrestle it towards you, but all those years of whatever sport he was playing in college actually paid off.

“It’s just… not fully fleshed out yet.” His cheeks are still crimson, bottom lip tucked in between his top teeth.

“And?”

He lets out a defeated sigh. “My research strategy is pretty much 'throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks.' I've got a note here that just says 'Delgado equals suspicious eyebrows' with no context whatsoever.”

You burst out laughing — like, actually doubled over, embarrassing snort giggles escaping before you can stop them. It’s the most Jungkook thing you’ve ever heard, so exactly what you should have expected. He’s always been like this; flying by the seat of his pants and landing on his feet everytime. You’ll never admit it to yourself fully, but you’re a bit jealous of how effortlessly brilliant he is. Intelligence just flows through him instead of requiring the blood, sweat, and tears you have to muster up.

You also don’t notice Jungkook going completely still, completely transfixed on you as you laugh.

“How does anyone over at Fox let you get away with this?” You finally manage between giggles.

“Mm, I’ll have you know my devastating good looks more than make up for my other shortcomings.” Jungkook attempts what might be a wink but looks like he’s having some kind of facial spasm.

That sends you into another round of giggles. “Let’s pump the brakes on that ego, Romeo.”

“Fine, fine. It’s obviously my big brain that carries me, duh.” He taps his temple twice, a ridiculously large grin on his face.

"Right, that famous brain of yours." You're still grinning, and without thinking, you reach over and pat his broad shoulder. "The same brain that once showed up to Professor Chen's final with notes written on a coffee shop napkin."

"That napkin had very valuable information on it!"

"It had a grocery list, Jungkook. I literally remember 'buy milk' being highlighted in yellow."

“Okay, and who still got the only A+ in class?” He crosses his arms over his chest petulantly.

You squint at him. The little fucker. You’d almost managed to forget about the Great A+ Debacle of Professor Chen’s course. You marched right up to Chen after class and demanded to know why your meticulously researched paper only earned an A while Jungkook’s napkin-note got the A+. His response was, and you quote, “Mr. Jeon’s analysis simply wowed me.”

Wowed. As if Jungkook was some kind of magician instead of a guy who studied for the final on the bus ride to campus.

"Don't." You hold up a warning finger. "Don't you dare get smug about that."

"Too late." His grin is insufferable. "Already feeling pretty smug."

“I spent three weeks studying. Three whole ass weeks of research. And you probably studied the night before.”

“Two nights before, actually. I’m not a complete animal.”

You want to throw something at him, but all you have is your laptop and that seems counterproductive. “I hate you so much.”

“Do you?"

“I really, really do, Jeon.”

“No, you just hate that I’m right.” His pearly white teeth are still on display, but a look of uncertainty flashes across his features briefly. “I swear, sometimes I think you believe I took this job just to spite you.”

The accusation hangs in the air. What the hell? Where did that come from? You blink at him, completely thrown by whatever weird turn this conversation just took.

“I didn’t,” he continues just as you open your mouth to respond, “but it’s okay.”

“So then why did you?” The question is tumbling out of you before you can catch it, and suddenly you know you’re not talking about Professor Chen anymore. “Why did you have to follow me to the one place.. the one thing you knew I wanted more than anything?”

His jaw tightens. “Is it hard to believe that my dreams could’ve been the same as yours? That I also wanted to work in the White House? That despite my family name, I wanted to make something of myself?”

And when he puts it like that, you sound like the most egotistical, narcissistic bitch of all time.

“I’m sorr—”

“It’s fine.” His voice suggests it’s very much not fine.

You study his profile as he stares behind you, past your face, out the window. There’s that scar on his cheek you keep wondering about. He has small silver hoops in both ears, ones that you want to come up with a joke for, but it never actually leaves your tongue. There’s also some perfectly placed mole just under his bottom lip. He has a lot of moles actually, some that you ponder what it’s like to trace as if they were destinations on a map with your finger.

He is really pretty. You’ll give him that much.

“So… you took the job to prove you could be more than just some rich kid with connections?”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, he meets your eyes. "That, and... because I knew you'd be here. And I guess a small part of me wants to follow you everywhere you go."

You stare blankly at him. There are approximately 1,586 different thoughts ricocheting around your brain right now, most of which you're mashing so far down they'll probably fossilize before you ever have to deal with them. You have to remind yourself they’re just words, just pretty words he probably read in a book and decided to test-drive on you for shits and giggles.

Because this is Jungkook. The dude from college who once wore a Hawaiian shirt to your Political Theory class specifically because you'd mentioned in passing that you found them aesthetically offensive, the dude who waited outside your classes just to inform you about whatever A+ he'd gotten that week, the dude who lurks in the hallway for you after every press briefi…

Oh, crap.

Shit.

He really has been everywhere, hasn't he? He’s invaded every part of your life. Since freshman year.

There’s nothing left for you to do but deflect. Start running so fast in the other direction like a chicken with its head cut off. “So, you’re admitting you’re my stalker? Is that on the record?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, [Y/N]. If that’s what you wanna call it. Then yes, I’m your stalker.”

“Great. I’ll personally deliver the restraining order papers to your home.” You close your laptop. It’s painfully obvious that no actual work is happening here. You also don’t think you would be able to work if you tried. Not with him sitting so close to you, spewing confessions like they’re Halloween candy.

“You’d have to find my address first.” He sticks his tongue out at you humorously.

“That won’t be hard. I bet you live in one of those high-rises with a doorman named Gerald who knows everyone’s coffee order.”

Back at Columbia, you may have heard whispers. Something about his family having serious money, like a trust fund and summer house in the Hamptons type money. You never paid much attention to campus gossip, but it was hard to ignore.

“His name is Frank, actually, and he prefers espresso.”

You gape at him. “I was kidding, but of course you actually— never mind. The point is, you’re a terrible stalker because you’re being way too obvious about it.”

“Am I?”

“Jungkook.” Your tone is so stern he slumps into the seat. “Stop stalking me.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?”

You're trying not to laugh, but honestly, he's such an idiot. "You never even apologized for watching my press pools so you can copy me, you dweeb."

He rolls his eyes. “How will we ever live?”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “We won’t.”

“In what form would you like your apology, your royal highness?”

“Oh fuck you, Jeon.”

“Apology's coming,” he promises. “One of these days.”

You highly doubt that.

“I won’t hold my breath. I’d like to live to see 30.”

You let your gaze drift back to the window, watching the world blur past in streaks of green and gray. The early morning sun keeps catching on random things — car windshields, road signs, some poor jogger's reflective gear. Your abandoned AirPod sits on your lap, reminding you of all the work you have left to do and definitely aren't going to accomplish with Jungkook sitting there being... whatever this is.

Just as you're considering reopening your laptop and pretending to be productive, your bladder decides to make its presence known. Damnit. You were so comfortable.

Sighing, you turn toward Jungkook. “Move. I gotta pee.”

“What happened to please like a civilized human being?” He smirks, cocking his head.

“Please move before I pee on you.”

“Okay, ew.” He shifts his legs approximately two inches, which creates a gap roughly the size of a Pop Tart. "There you go."

“That’s not… you know what, fine.” It’s definitely not enough room but whatever. You stand up, eyeing the bus for the bathroom. The bathroom is located in possibly the worst spot imaginable — right in the middle of everything, next to the emergency exit, like they wanted to make sure everyone could witness your walk of shame.

You begin to step over his legs, halfway through the maneuver (you note his legs are freakishly long and bulky) when the bus hits what must be the Grand Canyon of potholes. Your head smacks the ceiling, your balance goes to hell, and you’re about to face-plant into the aisle before two warm, firm hands plant themselves on your hips, anchoring you.

Looking down, Jungkook is staring up at you with those expressive brown eyes. You become incredibly aware that your outer thighs are bracketing his and his hands are spanning across your hipbones, and that this is probably the most compromising position you’ve ever found yourself in on public transportation.

Never mind the fact that his hands fit so well around your hips you want to keep them there forever.

“Careful, sweetheart.” He knows calling you that is going to piss you off, and the way your face contorts shows him he’s hit the mothership.

“That restraining order is calling..” you joke, trailing off as you pry his hands from your hips and finally step into the aisle.

You make your way toward the bathroom, gripping seat backs for balance and trying very hard not to think about the way his hands felt. As you walk, your chronic nosiness gets the better of you, and you start peeking into the seats you pass.

There’s actually… a lot more empty seats than you thought there were. Rows and rows of empty aisle seats, unoccupied.

Your heart buzzes for a millisecond, reverberates through your entire being as the realization hits you: he lied.

The bus wasn’t fully packed. He chose to sit next to you.

He wanted to sit next to you.

You’re supposed to hate him. You need to hate him. But standing here in a swaying Greyhound bus, staring at rows of empty seats, you're starting to think you might be the biggest liar of them all.

So, Monroe’s team wasn’t kidding about the whole ‘all expenses paid’ thing, because this hotel has absolutely no business housing someone who still shops in the clearance section at Target.

When you finally stumble through the revolving doors after your four-and-a-half-hour journey to hell, you're pretty sure you've accidentally wandered into the lobby from Home Alone. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, marble floors reflecting off your scuffed up sneakers. Men in three-piece suits roam around the space, attending to guests who probably spend more on room service than you make in a month.

“Woah.” you breathe out, and your bag slides off your shoulder. You make zero effort to catch it.

The past four and a half hours might as well have been some kind of fever dream. You accomplished exactly nothing work-wise, spent a good hour critiquing every political op-ed ever written, and then promptly passed out against the window for the remainder of the trip.

Well. Not exactly the window.

Your head may or may not have migrated onto Jungkook’s shoulder at some point, and he may or may not have just… let it stay there. You woke up groggily to find a small patch of drool on his sweatshirt and his inquisitive chocolate eyes watching you. It was deeply unsettling.

“Heavy sleeper, eh?” He had said, and you’d jerked upright so fast you nearly put yourself in a neck brace.

But he also didn’t push you off.

And that would all be mortifying enough on its own, but then he went and paid for the Uber to the hotel before you could even open the app, waving off your protests with a “Don’t worry about it” that made bile rise up in your throat.

Too many acts of service in one day from Jungkook Jeon. Your world order is officially in shambles.

“Are you gonna stand there all day, or…?” Jungkook's voice breaks through jokingly. He’s already heading towards the check-in desk, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes — which should not make your skin feel like it’s been hit with a small electrical current, but clearly today is just full of things that should not be happening.

Yes, you think to yourself, watching him walk away. Standing here forever is a viable option, considering the fanciest hotel I've ever stayed in was that sketchy motel outside Hershey Park when I was fifteen and my dad got a Groupon.

You shake yourself back to reality and follow him, trying not to gawk at the fact that there are fresh flowers arranged on every surface. Jungkook already has his ID out and is giving his information to the desk clerk, a woman who looks like she stepped out of a magazine ad.

Zoning out a little, you half-listen to their exchange while taking in the absurdity of your surroundings. There's a sitting area with leather chairs, and — oh god — is that a piano? An actual grand piano just sitting there like it's normal?

“Perfect, Mr. Jeon. You’re all set with room 1247.” The woman’s voice snaps you back to attention. She slides a key card across the counter, an overly excited smile plastered on her face. “The elevators are just past the concierge desk.”

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, pocketing the card. He turns to you, eyebrows pointing in the direction of the desk. “Your turn.”

Right. Yes. No more ogling. You are an adult. You step forward, fumbling with your ID while trying not to feel intimidated by the woman’s flawless makeup and perfect French manicure. “Checking in. Should be under the name ‘[Y/N] [Y/L/N].”

Her fingernails clack against the keyboard, expression slowly shifting from pleasantness to mind confusion. “I’m sorry, could you repeat your last name?”

You spell it out slowly, watching as her frown deepens as she clicks through whatever fancy system this place probably uses. A habitual swoop of anxiety forms in the pit of your stomach. Of course something would go wrong. Of fucking course you would end up having to sleep in Penn Station or Port Authority Bus Terminal.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, tone genuinely apologetic. “I’m not seeing a reservation under that name for today's check in. Let me check if it was perhaps booked under your organization?”

“CNN,” you supply, and Jungkook glances over at you, concerned.

More typing. More frowning. Wrinkles scrunch up on her forehead. “Hm. I do see a CNN reservation but it appears to be…” she swallows, looks between you and Jungkook. “Well, this is unusual. It looks like there’s only one room with a king bed booked under the CNN account.”

Your laugh, when it finally claws its way out from the depths of your chest, is unhinged. No. No no no. You've read this exact scenario before in those terrible Harry Styles fanfictions you used to devour at 2 AM during your sophomore year — the ones with titles like "Snowed In with My Enemy" or "One Bed, Two Hearts" — but this cannot be happening to you. This is real life.

You are a serious journalist with a 401k, not some protagonist in a story written by someone named dreamersparacosm.

“That is literally impossible. I,” you point dramatically to yourself, “work for CNN.”

You switch gears and gesture wildly in Jungkook's direction. “He works for Fox. Fox News. Disgusting, right? We are competitors.”

The woman blinks calmly, like she’s trying to process whether you’re having some kind of breakdown. “I… see. Let me double check the reservation details.”

“Please do.” You’re begging now, hands clasped in desperation. “Because there is no universe in which they booked me a room with him.”

You swivel to face Jungkook, who’s looking suspiciously amused by this whole debacle. “This is hilarious to you, isn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“I’m going to murder Mark,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m going to take his calendar and shove it up his—”

“Ma’am?” The clerk interrupts, gulping. Oh dear lord. “I’m afraid the reservation is quite clear. One room, one bed, two guests, booked under Monroe’s team with CNN listed as the primary contact.”

You stare at her. “Monroe’s team? Booked this?”

“It appears so, yes.”

“So,” and now you’re just trying to piece it together yourself, “Mark booked it for us…”

“Together.” Jungkook supplies, grinning as if this is the best thing that has happened to him all week.

"This is against HR!" you shriek, causing several well-dressed hotel guests to turn and stare. "This is violating every HR policy that has ever been written! There are handbooks about this! Seminars!"

The aforementioned woman starts looking around frantically like she’s getting ready to execute a search warrant for her manager. “Ma’am, I’m not sure how our hotel bookings relates to our HR—”

"Not your HR, my HR! His HR! All the HRs!" You're gesticulating wildly now. "We work for competing networks! What if he sees my notes? What if I talk in my sleep and reveal my next piece?”

“Do you often talk journalism in your sleep?” Jungkook asks, enthralled.

“That’s not the point!!” You stomp your foot on the marble floor, and it echoes throughout the lobby.

“Ma’am,” she tries again. She has this look on her face that tells you she’s seen people like you before. Great. You have become the stuck-up guest you’ve always loathed. “I understand your concerns, but unfortunately—”

“Can we call someone? Can we call the State Department? The FCC? Anyone with authority?” At any moment now, someone is going to start filming you and post it on TikTok for the world to see.

Jungkook is doubled over in hysterics now. “The FCC doesn't regulate hotel stays.”

“They should!” you snap at him. “This is a clear conflict of interest.”

“Oh my god.” You turn back to the woman. It’s pretty apparent she’s documenting every second of this in her brain so she can recap this to the team later in the break room over coffee. "Is there another room available? Any room. I'll take a broom closet. A supply closet. The roof."

“I’m afraid we’re completely booked today and tonight. There’s a medical conference a few blocks away from here.” She bites her lip, eyeing you apprehensively.

“Wonderful.” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “That is just lovely.”

She starts typing rapidly into her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard like she’s defusing a bomb. (Technically, she is. The bomb in question is a girl named [Y/N].) You can practically see her internal thoughts: Please let me find something, anything, to get this crazy woman away from me.

“The best I can do,” she starts, “is put you on the waiting list for a separate room. If we have any cancellations, I can move you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Your voice cracks like a boy going through puberty. “Tomorrow morning? As in, not today? As in, I’m stuck with him?”

He waves cheerfully behind you, and the clerk bites back a smile. “I’m afraid so.”

You whirl around and face Jungkook, who’s vibrating with glee. “This is not happening.”

“It definitely is,” he says, looking like Christmas just came early.

“I could sleep in the lobby,” you suggest desperately, turning back around. “On one of those fancy leather chairs. I bet they’re comfortable.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid hotel policy doesn’t allow—”

"What about the business center? Do you have a business center? I could just work all night. I don't need sleep. Sleep is for the weak."

Jungkook snorts. "You literally drooled on my shoulder on the bus ride for two hours."

You glare at him from the peripheral of your vision.

The woman looks between you both, eyes ping-ponging. “So… will you be taking the room?”

On one hand, this is absolutely mortifying and probably violates several HR policies you didn't even know existed. On the other hand... maybe you could use this to your advantage. Plant some fake evidence of journalistic misconduct. Find all his sources and set them on fire. Steal his laptop and replace all his documents with pictures of cats.

You kind of like your chances.

“I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?” you sneer, inhaling deeply through your nose. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You’ll march back down at exactly 6 AM tomorrow morning and camp out at this desk until they give you your own room.

She tentatively slides the key card across the counter with visible relief, probably thrilled to be rid of you both. You snatch it up and gather your bag, walking past Jungkook wordlessly toward the elevators.

His footsteps follow behind you, and you can smell the smug satisfaction radiating off his body.

“So,” he says, sidling up way too close as you wait for the elevator. “You, me, a whole bed? Who gets which side of the bed?”

You take a step away from him. “I will light myself on fire before I share a bed with you.”

“That seems extreme.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. You step inside and press yourself against the far wall, the frigid metal cooling your warm skin.

“What about a pillow wall?” he inquires, hitting the button for the twelfth floor. “Super traditional, super safe.”

“What about..” you pretend to be deep in thought, “you sleeping in the bathtub?”

“I’m 5’11. I don’t think I’d fit.”

You bat your lashes at him sarcastically. “Then we’ll chop off your legs.”

A ridiculously joyful grin emerges on his face. “You know, most people would consider this a stroke of luck. Stuck in a fancy hotel with someone really sexy…”

You stare at him in complete disbelief. “Really sexy?”

“C’mon, look at me.” He gestures at his entire being with both hands.

“I’m looking. I’m not seeing it.”

“Really? Not even a little bit?” He pouts.

The elevator continues climbing the floors, and you’re beginning to wonder if you’re trapped in the world’s most ridiculous comedy. “Your ego could have its own zip code.”

The elevator dings at the twelfth floor and you launch your body out the doors, speed-walking down the hallway while checking room numbers. 1241, 1243, 1245…

“I have to say,” Jungkook trails behind you like a lost puppy, “your reaction to all this is really entertaining. Very you core.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you murmur, stopping in front of room 1247. The key card is heavy in your hand.

“I feel like we should make the best of the situation, like most people would. We could order room service together, watch a movie, have a deep conversation about life…” He swings back and forth on the balls of his heels.

You glance over your shoulder to scowl at him. “Most people don’t have to share a room with their nemesis.”

“Nemesis?” His eyes light up in delight. “That’s sooo much cooler than rival. I’m your nemesis now?”

“You’re my sleep paralysis demon.”

“I’ll take it.” He’s smiling that dumb, pleased-with-himself smile that makes you want to punt him down the hallway like a football. "So are you going to open the door, or are we setting up shop out here? Because this carpet looks expensive but not particularly comfortable."

You slide the key card into the slot forcefully. It’s barely 24 hours in one room. You’ve done worse. “I’m establishing ground rules the second we get in there.” “Ooh, I love rules. I’m good at follo—”

“Please, shut up Jeon.” The lock clicks green and you push open the door, stepping into what is undoubtedly the nicest hotel room you've ever seen in your life.

The space is huge. Gleaming hardwood floors, a sitting area paired with a couch and coffee table, and a minibar stuffed to the brim with all types of liquor. A flat screen TV is mounted to the wall, bathroom door cracked next to it so that you can catch a glimpse of the bathtub that’s legitimately the size of a small swimming pool.

But none of that really matters. You step into the room fully, past the threshold and the floor-to-ceiling windows make your jaw fall slack. The curtains are pulled back to reveal a glorious view of Times Square, billboards and screens creating a kaleidoscope of color, even in the morning light.

And then you see it.

That stupid singular bed. One large, fluffy, lone bed.

You both drop your bags at the same time, your own shoulder reddening from the amount of time you carried that massive thing. His bag — to no one’s surprise — is one of those sleek black bags that probably has compartments for everything. Yours is a battered duffel bag that you’ve had since college and is literally held with duct tape in some places.

“Okay,” you announce, spinning around to face him once you’ve shoved your bag into the corner. “First rule. You stay on your side of the room. I don’t care if there’s a fire, you do not cross the invisible line I’m about to draw down the middle.”

“What invisible line?” He runs his hand through his unruly hair, and you try not to pay attention to the way his sweatshirt rides up a little.

“The one I’m drawing right now.” You draw an imaginary line with your finger. “From the door to the window. Your side, my side. Like the Berlin Wall.”

He raises his eyebrows. “The Berlin Wall was torn down, you know that, right?”

“I won’t let history repeat itself.”

He flops down on the bed — his side, thank god — and stretches his arms behind his head. You stand there like a deer in headlights, hyperaware of every breath he takes. Suddenly the room can’t be big enough.

“Second rule,” you continue on, “no walking around in your underwear. Or, walking around undressed in any capacity.”

"Aww, and here I was planning to really let loose." His eyes are twinkling with mischief again. "What if I get hot in the middle of the night?"

Your brain comes up with several unhelpful images that you shove down so hard they probably reach your shoes. "Then you suffer in silence like the rest of us."

“What about you? Same rules apply?”

“Obviously.”

“Shame.” He clucks his tongue, and your cheeks flame hot.

You check your phone to avoid looking at him any longer and realize it’s already 11 AM. Monroe’s press conference is at 1, so you should probably head over soon to scope out the venue and grab a decent seat.

“We should get ready.” It’s not lost on you that your voice is higher than normal. “Monroe’s thing starts in two hours. You should probably change into something more… professional.”

He glances down at that stupid Columbia sweatshirt like he’s just now remembering that’s not press conference attire. “Good call.”

Turning toward your duffle bag, you dig around in there for the blazer you packed. Hopefully it’s not too wrinkled from being stuffed between your shoes and your toiletries. “I’ll just grab my stuff and change in the bathroom.”

There’s a soft grunt behind you as he gets up from the bed, followed by the sound of a zipper and rustling fabric. You’re still facing your bag, noting what you’ll need to bring to the conference, when you whip back around to head towards the bathroom.

You freeze.

The man is shirtless. Jungkook Jeon is standing in the middle of this ludicrously fancy hotel room, completely shirtless, rifling through his bag as if he didn’t just break rule number two.

And now you can see the full extent of his tattoo sleeve, intricate black ink winding from his shoulder all the way down to his wrist and fingers in patterns you'd never been able to make out when it was hidden under dress shirts and blazers. There are what look like snakes and words mixed with geometric designs, and — hold the phone — is that a chest tattoo spawning across his pec?

It's not even just the tattoos that are making your brain malfunction. It's the fact that his biceps are absolutely ridiculous — like, absurd in their definition — and all you’re thinking about is how those arms would look wrapped around someone. Around you, possibly. Around your nec—

You have officially lost your sense of self.

You’ve interviewed senators, covered international summits, and you are not going to be affected by something as frivolous as your archnemesis’ very real, very unfairly defined everything.

Except you absolutely are.

“What the fuck?! Don’t get changed in front of me, you dimwit!” You flail your hands wildly in the direction of his shirtless situation. “There’s a bathroom! With a door that closes!”

“Okay, calm down.” He doesn’t bother to look up at you. Just keeps digging through the pile of clothes in his bag.

“You should not be standing there half fucking naked, Jeon. We established rules," you croak, voice barely functional.

He finally looks up, unbothered. "You said no walking around shirtless. I'm not walking. I'm standing perfectly still."

"That's not—that doesn't count as a loophole!"

"Technically, it does."

You spin back around so fast, facing the window where people rush by like ants on a playground, pressing your hands to your burning cheeks. "Put a shirt on!"

"I'm trying to! You're the one who said I needed to look professional."

Okay, breathing techniques. You try to remember what your therapist said. Everything is fine. You're not going to dwell on the fact that he clearly uses cars as weights at the gym, or wonder what those shoulders would feel like under your hands, or have any thoughts whatsoever about the man currently half-naked ten feet away from you.

Oh, no. You are so completely screwed.

Clutching your blouse and blazer in your right hand, you sprint to the bathroom and slam the door behind you. You knew he was buff. You knew he was in shape underneath all those dress shirts he wears. But there's a difference between knowing something and having it burned into your retinas in high definition.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. You know what it is — it’s because you haven’t gotten laid in a while. Your body is just confused by the presence of an attractive male specimen.

You change into your outfit as quickly as humanly possible. It’s pretty challenging to do since your hands are made of jello now.

When you finally work up the courage to crack open the bathroom door, his sweatshirt is neatly folded on the bed and he's — thank you, universe — wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to hint at those tattoos.

“Better?” He asks, adjusting his cuffs.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Nonchalance is what you’re going for, but you sound undeniably chalant. “Much better.”

“I like your outfit.”

That catches you off guard. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips as you become cognizant of the genuine look on his face.

Because you guess that’s what you two do now. You compliment each other.

"Oh. Thanks."

"That color looks good on you."

You glance down at your red blazer. You noted some senator wearing it the other day and practically flew to Aritzia to snag your own. "It's just... red."

“It’s a nice red.” This exchange is more troubling than when he was half-naked. “Brings out your eyes.”

"Are we really doing this now? The compliment thing?"

"I guess we are." He shrugs, grabbing his press badge from his bag. "Is that okay with you?"

"I don't know. It's weird." Like, frightfully weird.

"Good weird or bad weird?"

You stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if this is some kind of elaborate joke. "I haven't decided yet."

He nods, and then checks his watch. Must’ve run out of things to fight you on. “We should head down. I want to grab a good spot before all the other vultures descend.”

“Vultures?” You’re grateful for the return to familiar territory. “I prefer ‘information enthusiasts’.”

“Right, because that sounds so much better.” He’s beaming now, and you can feel the weird tension from earlier dissolve into the ceiling fan. “Still sticking to your strategy?”

“Depends on what she gives me to work with.” You grab your notebook from your bag.

“Smart.”

“Always.” You study his face, hugging your book to your chest. “What about you? Please tell me you came up with an actual plan while I slept peacefully on your shoulder. You can’t possibly think you’ll get by on charm.”

“Hey.” He crosses his arms over his chest, “That strategy has worked pretty well for me so far.”

"Has it though?" You tilt your head, forming your words slowly in the hopes they’ll sound more daunting. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you've been following my lead for the past few years."

He goes quiet for a second, and you can tell you've hit something. "Is that what you really think? That I've been copying you?"

“Haven’t you?”

Duh, he obviously has. You caught him watching your press briefings, taking literal notes on your questioning style. He's not nearly as slick as he thinks he is.

“I’m just trying to keep up.”

There’s something buried there, in the words. A muted truth you’ve been trying to dodge since the gala, when you were multiple glasses of vodka soda past responsible and he'd said something about always knowing what questions to ask. When your guard was down and you couldn't be trusted to keep your walls up properly. He'd made it clear then, hadn't he? That he'd been studying you, trying to figure out your methods?

“Hm, something like that,” you retort while heading for the door.

“You think you’re better than me?”

"Nah," you say, lifting your chin. "Just smarter."

You barely catch his response, but you swear you hear him mutter, "Damn right you are."

And that's enough to send you right back up, up, up — except this time, you're not eleven years old clutching a safety bar at Coney Island. You're twenty-six and terrified, because you know, deep down, you never actually wanted to remember the drop. Possibly avoided it on purpose.

The real scary part is when you're suspended at the very top, heart thrashing in your chest, when you finally stop looking at the world spread out below and start wondering what it feels like when you fall.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook x you

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qqueenofhades · 1 year ago

Note

I got political whiplash on Threads. First, everyone was screaming, “All is lost!” I came back an hour later, and everyone was screaming, “We Ride at Dawn!”

The right-wingers are in panic mode. Steven Miller was practically screaming on Feckless news. 🤣

I mean. The right-wingers' entire mentality, the fuel for the January 6 attempted coup, the recent SCOTUS President God-King Immunity ruling, and all the rest, is premised on the simple fact that the president is indeed, Almighty God King who serves for life and will never, ever willingly give up his power. So that's how I can guarantee that the GOP, because they are short-sighted fascist morons, did not plan for this. Their entire strategy was built around attacking Biden, because they hate him. Like, really hate him. He defeated Trump the first time and there was still a good chance that he could do it again. Trump got impeached the first time for trying to extort Zelenskyy for dirt on Biden, because he didn't want to face him. That's why they went after Hunter on largely bogus charges, tossed around the idea of impeaching Biden, actually (uselessly) impeached Mayorkas, etc.

And yet, because Biden (even if he was forced to do it) decided to step away and voluntarily give up his presidential power instead of wrecking American democracy to hold onto it, that has broken their little shriveled fascist brains. They literally can't comprehend it, and I can guarantee they're now shit scared about having to face Kamala, a brown woman, who is the epitome of everything their tiny evil brains hate. As noted by those bangin' fundraising numbers, there is also a lot of excitement around her. And suddenly, after MONTHS of "this election is a referendum on which old and mentally declining man you hate more," that has been removed as a factor. (Watch the media suddenly forget all about age and/or mental competency as a factor now that Biden is out. Does it apply to Trump, you ask? CRICKETS.)

Kamala is going to mop the f'n floor with Trump at the next presidential debate, and I guarantee that the GOP knows that too. Because yes, if Biden had another bad debate, or if he has a bad case of COVID that might end up giving him long-covid symptoms or keeping him off the trail for days or weeks, that would have been very, very hard to recover from. Now the GOP is the one stuck with an old, mentally baffled, virulently hated presidential candidate and the most pro-Russia, anti-woman, demonstrable-sellout whitebread VP pick imaginable, that they had to choose because Trump nearly got the last one killed and he wasn't interested in the job again, for some weird reason. And as we have pointed out before, this is the last-chance saloon for Trump in any number of ways, and he has been demonstrably overconfident the last few weeks as the media was consumed with discussion of Biden's stumbles rather than Trump's manifold unfitness, treason, felonies, and all the rest.

I don't agree with Biden on everything he has ever done in his long career in public service, but I will say that I don't think he would have actually done this if he wasn't eventually convinced, for whatever reason that might be, that it was the right decision. And my one big fear about him stepping down was that the party would instantly fracture, people would start flogging unrealistic Magical White Boy replacements, and otherwise insist on an "open mini-primary!" or some other fucking bullshit. Now, there are still a few idiots trying that, but by and large, the Democratic power apparatus has instantly thrown its weight behind Kamala. That doesn't excuse them for the weeks of wibbling Anonymous Sources self-sabotage beforehand, and I still vote that we destroy the billionaires at our next opportunity, but if we can stick with that and keep up those mongo fundraising numbers, we might indeed actually have a better chance than before, and that was what this was all about.

As I noted yesterday, Black women have been disproportionately influential in taking Trump down (think Leticia James, Fani Willis, etc) and there is undoubtedly a huge, HUGE amount of poetic justice if Kamala can be the one to stick the knife in his greasy orange gut once and for all. I can likewise guarantee the GOP is well aware of that, and the fact that while they can yell even louder and trot out the same old racist, sexist, misogynist fearmongering dirtbag attacks they used on HRC, that is a strategy with demonstrably diminishing returns (it sure as hell isn't going to help them win any more female or suburban or black voters or anyone else we always hear about how they're Making Inroads with). And we're not going to talk about how it's Obvious that America would never elect a black female president. Obama won two terms. Even with all that weight of frothing misogyny and DECADES of Republican smear machines, HRC won the popular vote and was ratfucked out of the Electoral College by the slimmest of margins, after a massive interference campaign by the Russians. It is fucking possible, we are going to do it, and the Republicans are so, SO FUCKING SCARED of having to live in an America run by a brown woman, that can only be for the good.

Kamala Harris 2024. Let's go.

#nbundarin #ask #politics for ts #kamala harris 2024

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bbydoll18xx · 9 months ago

Text

I Try to Refrain (But You’re Stuck in my Brain)

You have a dream about Paige, and it leads to some shocking revelations.

Paige Bueckers x Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.2k

Themes: loneliness, reader realizes she's in love with her best friend, paige is a flirt (what's new?)

A/N: hi guys. sorry it's been a hot min. This election has made me miserable and my grandpa just died today so I wrote this to distract myself lol. I wanted to write something that wasn't fluff before coming out with a new part to I've Got a Wand and a Rabbit, so hopefully this will suffice. Please don't let this flop

Also Is There Somewhere is one of most favorite songs of all time you all should check it out if you've never heard it !!

Please enjoy:)

There was simply no denying that being a college student was pretty fucking exhausting. Between your on-campus casual job, the extensive list of assignments you had racked up, and the overwhelming need to still have a social life, the circles under your eyes had become much more pronounced in the last few weeks.

You needed your beauty sleep, or else you’d be well on your way to looking like Shrek by the end of the semester. And because you had been on the hunt to end your single streak, looking like Shrek would be the worst thing to happen.

You giggle to yourself, the sleep deprivation clearly making you delirious. Checking your watch, you see that you had in fact been up for a whopping 28 hours. It was time for a seriously good nap. You throw your backpack onto the floor of your bedroom, tugging your sweatshirt off of you and flopping down onto your bed. The plushness engulfs you in warmth and comfort, lulling you into a deep, calming sleep, that you so desperately needed.

Or so you thought.

You wake up panting. The air around you is suffocatingly hot, and you can feel the sheets twisted uncomfortably around your legs, trapping you in the warmth. Your heart is pounding against your chest, and you slide your hand across your sternum in a futile effort to soothe yourself.

The dream was quickly fading, and you squeeze your eyes in deep concentration, desperate to hold on to the remnants of it before they fled from your racing thoughts.

It was hazy. But the pounding of your chest and the fluttering that accompanied made you feel like you were missing a key detail. It was right on the tip of your tongue, inching further and further away the more you search for the answers.

You were in bed with another person. They were warm, and their laugh was enough to make you want to get down on one knee right then and there. You were cuddled up with them, the feeling of peace washing over you.

It has been a long time since you felt peace, and as you search for more clues to unearth your future love of your life, the wistfulness settles deep inside you. It mocks you, whispering into your ear that you’d never feel so lucky to be at peace with someone.

The last of the dream fades, and you groan, throwing your arm over your face and vowing to prove your meanest, most vile inner voices wrong.

Because, goddamn it, you did deserve to be loved. And maybe, just maybe, it would happen for you.

You go to bed that night with a fierce determination to coax your brain into revealing more, and as you settle into bed, you pop two benadryl tablets.

‘This’ll give me some good dreams,’ you think slyly, before shutting your eyes and waiting for the next clue, sleep quickly overcoming your thoughts.

You sleep soundly, waking the next morning with a crick in your neck and long, blonde hair on your brain.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, your dream still playing again in your muddled brain. “It’s a girl," you say incredulously.

"Or maybe an Australian surfer dude," you say sarcastically out loud to yourself.

"God, I'm losing it," you mumble, rubbing a hand over your sleepy eyes.

Her face was blank, deluding you of figuring out who it really was, but the familiar, tinkling laughter was playing on a loop. It was making you crazy.

Your thoughts drift back to being tangled up with lean limbs, the soft hair flowing over slim, strong shoulders and down the girl’s bare back. You recall how you had traced a line down the line of her spine, goosebumps erupting in the wake of your touch.

She was strong and delicate, a dichotomy of perfection that had your thighs clenching in want and your heart clenching in need.

You sigh. It felt almost real, and now it was being ripped from you every time you woke up. It felt unnecessarily cruel, and tears prick your eyes as reality sets in. You were escaping to a fantasy world in your dreams to avoid the crushing forlornness that was settling deep into your bones.

Loneliness was certainly the muse, it seemed.

You meet up with your friends later that night, searching for a distraction from the blonde hair that was currently haunting every waking moment. As you cross campus to head to Aubrey’s apartment, you scold yourself as each blonde who passes you makes you glance hopefully in their direction.

There had to be something to jog your memory, unclouding the face you wanted nothing more to recognize. But each face elicited a disappointed pang in your stomach that spread an uncomfortable coldness through the rest of your body.

You shake your head as you approach Aubrey’s door, trying to rid yourself of the disheartened aura you were currently giving off.

You and Aubrey had become friends two years ago, and by extension, the rest of her team and her girlfriend had accepted you with open arms. You were looking forward to Caroline and Azzi’s wisdom and kind smiles. And KK and Ice’s laughter would certainly be a great distraction.

Your mind gently drifts towards Paige before the door swings open with a large bang, and a loud, joyous cry erupts from the group of girls in the apartment.

You wave at them, cheeks turning pink from the attention. You scan the room, letting your brain secretly look for Paige, just to check to see if it would trigger the flashes of your dream.

You move towards the kitchen, joining into a heated discussion KK and Jana were having about Legos, eyes still darting around curiously.

“I’m obviously the best and fastest builder,” KK boasts, sticking her tongue out childishly at her teammate, and you giggle, taking a sip of your drink as Jana voraciously defends herself and her Lego-building abilities.

It was almost subconscious. You step back, as if you were being pulled against your will, and you hit a wall of warmth and muscle. Your heart lurches as your mind registers what was happening.

“Damn, ma. I gotchu, don’t worry,” Paige mumbles in your ear, chuckling as you turn into a bumbling mess in her firm grasp.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry, P,” you whisper, not trusting your full voice. You steady yourself, proud that you at least did not spill your drink.

Her hand slides down your side to rest heavily on your waist, and her touch ignites a fire in your belly. Your breath hitches as you look up at her. Her hair is down for once, flowing across her shoulders, and your head spins as she laughs again.

You knew that laugh.

“Never gonna complain about having to rescue a pretty girl,” she flirts, and you turn your head, not wanting her to see the way her words sent your face up in a blaze of heat. The realization hits you like a crashing wave.

Your dream was about Paige fucking Bueckers.

Your friend, Paige Bueckers.

You were so goddamn fucked.

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

What'd we think?? Please let me know. I might do another part if you guys are up for it.

Thanks so much for reading. I'm hoping I will be writing more frequently from now on

xoxo katy

Taglist:

@fullladypanda-blog, @omg-imtumbling, @tenaciousglitternerd, @oldcrdigan, @paigebuxkets, @the-other-half, @patscorner, @sophswbb, @dietcokesmom, @tndaqlifwy, @ch12334, @double22, @inthedeathofherreptuation, @authentic-girl03, @blueredg52 , @kmoneymartini , @mrsarnold, @ittiwdwysylm @sillylittlefakeacc

Want to be added to my taglist? Comment or send me a message :)

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x you #paige x reader #uconn wbb #friends to lovers #fluff #wlw

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lunahearts · 2 years ago

Text

Soooo I read all of Dungeon Meshi in this past week and I have many thoughts bouncing around in my brain and I think the only thing to do with them is some AGGRESSIVELY CLOSE READING of a scene I wanted to come back to and try to understand better.

So: I want to talk about chapter 28

This entire section of the story is something I feel like I am going to want to come back to a lot, because its such a transitional time and I feel like there are a lot of themes/ideas that I wasn't fully aware of during my first reading, and stuff I missed because of that.

One of the biggest things I have been turning over in my head is... hey, what was UP with the Marcille/Falin bath scene? Maybe it was because I was already primed to pay attention to stuff with them going into the story, or because I had already seen a couple of panels out of context. In any case, it really kind of stuck out to me as being very short but also VERY intense, while also being... hard for me to define? Some part of the nature of the intensity felt like it was going over my head.

I wasn't sure that revisiting it would help with this right away, but to my surprise, it actually WAS a lot easier for me to follow and understand when I went back to it. So I want to just do a close reading of That Scene and some other parts of the chapter & context around it all, because I think it offers insight into Falin & her relationships, and what purpose this chapter serves within the story as a whole.

So first of all, I think it's interesting that the scene starts with Marcille bathing Falin.

It feels very caring in a more platonic, less charged way then what will follow.

Marcille goes from this caretaker mode to joining Falin in the bath, and then of course we get the first of The Panels

(as a small note, I only noticed when revisiting that Marcille is using the rest of her Kelpie soap in the bath. Isn't that just the most heartwrenching little detail. Augh)

Anyway, one of the first things I thought was interesting going back to this is how much it reminded me of the very different sort of intimacy that came just before it - when Laios and Marcille assembled Falin's bones.

This is such a beautiful and intimate sequence, and something about Marcille examining Falin, whole, after the fact... I can't imagine there are not some echoes of those bones in Marcille's mind. The action seems more startling/intense for Falin at first, and maybe part of that is because Marcille has already experienced this level of intimacy with Falin's body in a way Falin herself wasn't a part of.

This panel in particular I think is a summation of the difference in the experience for them. This looks like... near orgasmic for Falin tbh, and Marcille is very focused on the actual like practical part of what she's doing, seemingly completely unaware of the Effect she is having on Falin.

The whole short sequence is focused on this intimacy that Marcille initiated seemingly without fully being aware of what she was actually doing. And once Marcille is satisfied, she is also the one that ends it, sitting back in the bath and moving out of Falin's proximity. All on her own terms, and for her own ends.

HOWEVER... Falin doesn't just let things go.

Instead, she returns Marcille's attention. First, by asking after her wellbeing:

Marcille, of course, deflects (there will be a lot of that in this scene).

But Falin doesn't let it go.

Falin is not a confrontational person. She likes to keep the peace. In this context, and in context of the way that Marcille was the one to come into Falin's space initially, the way that Marcille controlled the initial intimacy... this is striking. I genuinely think that these three panels might convey one of the most assertive actions Falin (as herself) takes in the entire story. One of the only things that outdoes it is the fucking INCITING INCIDENT OF THE WHOLE STORY.

I'd also like to point out here that this action of Falin's also parallels her resurrection by Marcille & Laios. It's is also a forbidden magical action done to save someone(s) she loves, and its something she does TO them, that they are not fully aware/able to react to until its done.

Anyway, back to the bath scene. Falin is taking action here and asserting herself. And how does Marcille react?

She flips out!! She rejects it! She tells Falin that she isn't supposed to be acting like that.

It's a very distancing response from Marcille, and also one that puts her back in that caretaker mode from the start of the scene. She also puts even more distance between herself and Falin by sinking into the water.

Falin doesn't give up though! She continues to assert herself. She's okay, she is allowed to chose to do this.

And Marcille continues to push her away. It looks to me like she only starts to relax a little once she fits Falin into a role she can better define and control. You're a patient, you're recovering, I understand this fact and you don't. Let me take care of you.

But, for a third time, Falin pushes back.

I don't think it’s coincidence that this is where she opens her eyes. She asks directly about the thing that they have both been dancing around:

The resurrection spell. The fact that Falin KNOWS about this, at least in part, recontextualizes the quiet battle for control between the two them. They both know at least some part of the truth. Marcille wants nothing else then to ignore it. Falin wants to be able to talk about it. Marcille's blatant refusal to give her those answers, I think, is what keeps them out of sync - intimate only ever in one direction at a time, never fully together.

And of course, even when directly confronted, Marcille refuses to engage with the truth.

This moment being on the bottom of the page is notable too. There's a beat here. The last panel holds on Falin's face. The reader reaches the bottom of the page, and they are held here for a beat as well, with Falin. It's not quite a rejection yet. What Marcille says isn't directly an answer to Falin's question, but it is a response. A valid one, even! Falin wasn't just asking the question after all, but struggling with guilt that Marcille has every reason to want to reject.

But then you move on the next page, and...

Marcille isn't actually addressing the question at all, not directly. She's deflecting, again. Oh we had a ~difficult time~, there were a lot of "tough situations." Even though she and Falin both know about the resurrection, and Falin has made it clear that she wants to talk about it, Marcille pushes away from the actual topic. She keeps things broad and indirect.

She offers the smallest gesture to Falin - nothing more than a whisper of 'don't worry about it I won't get in trouble' (even though Falin's concern was never just about Marcille getting in trouble).

Marcille then continues to deflect even further, completely changing the subject onto clothes and frog adventures, which seems to distract Falin as well, as she finally gives up on pushing.

And that's where the scene ends! Marcille pushes into Falin's space (without fully realizing), and Falin pushes back. She tries three times to get Marcille to acknowledge her wants, and three times Marcille rejects her, though she does eventually convey some truth. She is honest in her belief that Falin doesn't need to feel guilty, and that things will all work out, even as she continues to deflect the rest of the question. Falin finally accepts that, the topic of conversation changes, and we move on.

But there is a little bit more that happens between them. Towards the end of the chapter, they have this little 'oh no we have to share a bed' situation. Classic stuff.

And Falin seems to realize that the context of this is kinda different now then it was when they were in the magic academy. She's not a kid any more, and they just had those intimate moments in the bath. There's a new tension between them, or one that new at least to the bed sharing of it all.

And in this respect, too Marcille pulls away from what Falin is trying to say. She tries to frame Falin as a kid, tries to insist that nothing is different.

When I first got to this part, it honestly felt... a little uncomfortable? After the bath scene, it is really weird to move into a new intimate situation with Marcille explicitly treating Falin as a kid.

What I have realized in coming back to this scene, though, is how much I think its meant to feel uncomfortable. Throughout the chapter, Marcille's responses to Falin become increasingly patronizing. By letting some of that conflict between them resolve at the end of the first scene, the chapter seems to let things rest, and lets you set it out of your mind.

Then, when the same type of conflict comes back at the end of the chapter, Marcille is even more blatantly treating Falin like a kid, and the unfairness of it hits even stronger. They are both adults, and Falin deserves the truth. After 27 chapters from the perspective of Laios, Marcille, and the others in the group, this progression lets you feel things from Falin's perspective. It's supposed to feel uncomfortable because it IS uncomfortable for Falin, the way no one will quite tell her the truth.

After all, Marcille isn't the only one to do this kind of deflecting when Falin tries to ask about what happened. Laios has a similar response, right down to the 'treating her a bit like a kid' part.

Even more importantly, this final conversation of the chapter reveals one last layer in the knowledge/power imbalance between Falin and the rest of the party: she doesn't actually remember sacrificing herself and teleporting them out.

As I mentioned before, that action was one of the most assertive things we see Falin do in the story, and she doesn't even get to keep that for herself. Instead of being her action, her choice, it becomes yet another thing that the others know more about than her.

I think that's part of why there is such an air of melancholy to this hug they share on the next page

Obviously, obviously, there are so many emotions here for Laios and I don't think its all meant to be viewed as a negative thing, or that he or Marcille are being completely unreasonable. They've been through a lot, and what's more, they think they have time now. So much more time then they actually will have. Time to explain, to open up, to let Falin return to the group in full - as a teammate and not just as someone to be cared for and protected.

But they don't get time. And this relenting by Falin, this "I won't do it again," it's not something that feels triumphant. It's an attempt to comfort them, more a prayer than a promise. As if she is trying to exorcise a spirit. As if she is capable of promising that death won't come, eventually. It's what Laios needs, not what she wants.

That's the real tragedy of the chapter, I think. It's the one time, in the midst of everything, that they have the chance to give Falin what she wants - and they don't do it.

But I do think they realize that, and I think that this failure is a core part of their journey. It's another bittersweet taste to add to the mix - all the missed chances in this chapter to connect, amidst the moments of genuine peace they do get throughout it.

As Laios puts it later...

If Falin hadn't been eaten by the dragon, and perhaps if they hadn't failed her here, they never would have had the adventure that they got to share.

(or, perhaps more tactfully: in life & chapter 28, there are both good times and bad. Thanks, Chilchuk)

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #falin touden #marcille donato #laios touden #dunmeshi analysis #dungeon meshi spoilers

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glassbxttless · 2 months ago

Text

Pretty Little Bat

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 3k+

summary: You have a crush on the frontman of the band that plays every Tuesday night at the Hideout and he finally notices you.

warnings: Not much? They’re in a bar, Eddie’s loud, Bats is shy.

notes: Y’all finally get to meet Eddie and Bats for the first time! I know some of my friends have to be sick of hearing about them at this point. Big thank you to @peachyproserpina for reading this over and editing! There’s more of these babies to come!

The Hideout always smells exactly like you’d expect the second you walk in. You sigh softly, eyes scanning over the duct tape on the bar stools and the jukebox that’s been stuck playing a warbly Journey song for three fucking days straight. There’s stale beer spilled along the floor and the scent of something metallic that might be blood or rust. Or maybe it’s just the natural scent of a place where the dreams of boys with too much ego go to die. You’d rather not investigate.

You’re halfway through psyching yourself up to brave the bathroom— a decision that feels increasingly like a health risk— when you notice the band starting to make their way onstage to set their things up. You bite your lip, you should go before they start to play. That’s why you’re here, anyway. So you stand, down the rest of your water, and make your way down the hall. You’re about to reach the ladies room, when the door across the small space flies open, outward, with a bang against the wall and nearly takes your nose clean off.

“Jesus—!”

The guy on the other side of the doorframe stumbles back and he freezes. So do you.

Oh. Oh shit. It’s him.

Eddie Munson. The guy with that pretty raspy voice that grins into microphones every Tuesday night. The guy plays his guitar like he’s trying to set it on fire. The guy who makes you sit through the exact same three-drink-minimum crowd just to hear his band cover Metallica. The guy you started coming to the Hideout every week for, just to see. And now he’s looking at you. Like he’s actually looking at you.

“You alright?” you ask him before your brain can stop your mouth. Your voice comes out much softer than you intended it to.

He blinks at you, taking in your words “Am I—?” His brows shoot up and he looks around the hall you’re standing in. “Am I alright? I almost committed manslaughter via bathroom door and you’re asking me if I’m alright?”

You shrug, a smile threatening to take over your face. “You missed.”

That gets a laugh out of him. It’s big and messy, and his grin follows right behind it— crooked, delighted, and way too charming for a guy who was wearing pants held together by safety pins by the looks of it. “Well, damn. I like you already.” He holds out his hand like you’re meeting at a church bake sale instead of outside a bar bathroom with suspicious stains on the wall. “I’m Eddie. Devoted fan of girls who wear eyeliner and look like they might summon a demon if you talk during a song.”

You glance down at the outstretched hand in front of you, and then you look back up at him. You take it— tentatively, sure, but you take it. You wrap your hand around it to shake his hand gently. His palm is warm and calloused.

“…I know who you are,” you admit softly.

His eyebrows lift again, you like seeing that face. “Oh yeah?”

You nod again. “I’ve seen your band. A few times.”

Eddie’s whole face lights up like he’s a kid who’s heard the ice cream truck. “No way! You’ve been lurking in the shadows this whole time like a pretty little bat and you didn’t say hi?”

“I sit in the back,” you murmur and shrug your shoulders again, letting go of his hand.

“Yeah, clearly, I’ve gotten that much— because I’m only just now discovering the mysterious bat girl haunting the Hideout.” He leans casually against the wall, his shoulder immediately prodding one of those stains with band fliers plastered over ‘em. It would look cooler if it weren’t for the fact that his elbow immediately slips, he stumbles, and he has to correct himself like nothing happened. “You here alone?”

You nod again. Saying “I come here alone in hopes you’ll notice me” feels a bit much, even for tonight when he had noticed you.

Eddie’s eyes gleam at that, like he’s just been handed a gift. “Even better.” He bounces a little on his toes, his arms folding behind his back so he can pinch himself without you noticing. There’s no way you are talking to him. “Hey. Can I buy you a drink?”

You open your mouth to answer him. You’d love a drink. But before you can respond—

“EDDIE!”

He groans softly, tossing his head back like someone’s just told him the gig’s canceled and there’s no pizza backstage. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a breath. You glance over at where the voice had come from. That’s Gareth, right? You think you could remember Eddie saying his name once or twice. He was shorter than Eddie, he had sandy blonde hair, and looked like he was the brawn to Eddie’s brain.

Eddie opens his eyes and turns back to you. He was fucking dramatic to the last second and you found it unfortunately endearing. “Fate is a cruel mistress. She giveth, and Gareth shouteth.”

You smile at that, you bring your hand up. It’s just a tiny thing you try to hide behind your sleeve. He notices and it brings that big, wide, grin back.

“I gotta go,” he says softly, already taking a step back from the little bubble you’d created, “but if you stick around— if you survive our set— I’m gonna come find you. That cool?”

“Yeah,” you say with that same smile, growing just a bit wider. “Okay.”

And then he’s gone in a second, sprinting off like a horse someone set loose on a track. He hops onstage in a flash of hair and long limbs, he plugs in a guitar that might be worth more than your car, and hollers into the mic like anyone outside of the small crowd gathered near the stage wants to hear. You retreat to your usual seat at a table close to the door. It’s hidden by the shadows. Your heart’s beating in your chest like you had just run a mile, but you stay put. Maybe just because he asked you to, or maybe because you really, really want to see him again. The last song ends in a messy crash of sounds. Eddie holds the final chord a little too long— like he’s God’s gift to metal— and then he flings himself into a dramatic bow that nearly takes out a speaker near the front. Gareth shouts something you can’t hear at him with a laugh, while chucking one of his drumsticks at him. Eddie flips him off, giving his head a shake. The audience— small as it is— cheers, drunk and thrilled.

You keep sitting still, your hands folded in your lap. Your palms too fucking sweaty. Normally you’d be out the door and halfway home by now, still buzzing from the music and trying to convince yourself you didn’t regret not sticking around to say anything to him. But your feet don’t move now. Not yet. Not with Eddie wanting to see you.

“Shit, where is she?”

You hear him before you see him.

Eddie’s voice cuts through the noise of the jukebox, louder than everyone else around you like he was born with a built-in amplifier. You watch as he zigzags through the crowd, the boys follow after him, his hair is sticking to his face. Gareth reaches for his arm and says something to him, but Eddie ignores it. He’s looking for you. And then he sees you.

“There you are!” he grins brightly. He’s breathless, bounding over like an overzealous golden retriever in a band tee. “You stayed! I was getting prepared to deliver a dramatic monologue about being ghosted in Gareth’s bedroom later.”

“…I said I’d stay.”

“Yeah, well, I said I’d be smooth and not whack a girl with a door, so we’re both liars.”

You glance at your bag, your hands fidgeting against the strap. “You don’t have to hang out if you’ve got—”

“Hey, hey,” he cuts in, leaning into your space slightly as he throws his palms up like you’ve accused him of something as serious as murder. “I abandoned my band for this. Do you know what kind of guilt trip Gareth’s gonna lay on me later?”

You smile again, a bit larger than before. You’re starting to do that a lot around him. “This?”

“This,” he confirms with a nod as he drops into the seat across from you. “You. Sitting here like some kinda dream I wasn’t cool enough to have.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

“I’ve been told,” he says proudly and lets out a sigh so dreamy you think it must be fake. Then he shifts slightly in the chair and adds more shyly, “I know this is probably weird, but… would you wanna hang out sometime? Like, not here. Somewhere with less potential tetanus.” He says softly, letting his eyes linger around the bar.

You blink, trying to figure out if he were playing some cruel joke on you. “…I don’t really talk a lot,” you say softly, just being honest. “I get… weird… Around people.”

Eddie’s eyes soften immediately. “Hey. That’s alright,” he says gently, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I can talk enough for both of us. Yeah? You just have to sit there being all mysterious while I do all the heavy lifting. I’ll make a fool of myself on my own.”

You finally look up to meet his eyes. Really meet them. You adore the deep brown that flash amber each time a flickering light hits them. You smile again, “You don’t seem like you get embarrassed easily.”

He laughs, resting his chin on his hand. “Only constantly. But don’t worry. You’ll get to witness it firsthand.”

You aren’t sure if he’s messing with you or not. But there’s a pause and then you nod. “I’d like that. The hanging out.”

Eddie beams brightly. Like he actually beams with happiness. “Cool. Awesome. Excellent. You like fries? I know a place that does them the size of your head and they’re open late.”

You nod and he stands, holding his hand out to you. You smile, sheepish now, and grab your bag. For the first time in a long time, the nerves in your chest don’t feel like they’re suffocating you to the point of death. They feel like wings. They’re a little wobbly, maybe. But they’re still there.

And they’re helping you follow this long haired guitarist out of the bar into the cold embrace of a Hawkins night.

-*-

The diner he drives to is just outside of Hawkins. It’s tucked between a boarded-up bait shop and a mechanic’s garage that might’ve once been condemned. The neon sign flickers when he parks the van under it, casting a twitchy red glow over the windshield.

“Don’t let the aesthetics fool you,” Eddie smiles as he throws the van into park and then dramatically flings himself sideways to face you. “This place has the best fries in a forty-mile radius. Also the worst coffee. But we’re here for the former, not the latter, unless you’ve got a death wish and a strong stomach lining.”

You smile, nerves creeping up your neck. Although you already feel warmer than you thought you’d be. His talking has barely paused since you left the Hideout. He’d pointed out every weird building along the way, shared an unsolicited monologue about a raccoon that he found once trying to break into his glove compartment when he’d left the windows down, and told you— at least twice, proving that his earlier comment at the Hideout was true— that your eyeliner could cut glass. Now, he jumps out of the van and rushes around the front to open your door. He’s moving like he’s in a black-and-white movie and you’re the dame who just walked in from a rainstorm. He even bows a little.

You arch a brow, letting him open the door, but not before you try to hide your grin, “You’re gonna sprain something being that smooth.”

He beams at you, not even trying to hide it like you were. “Totally worth it if you keep looking at me like that.”

Inside, the diner is all peeling vinyl booths. There’s mustard and ketchup bottles on every table. The lighting hums overhead like it’s got something to say. Eddie doesn’t wait for a waitress— he just flops into a booth in the corner and pats the seat across from him like he’s claiming it in your name. You slide in slowly, glancing around the diner. You take it in. Where the exits are, where the counter is. Everything. The place is mostly empty. There’s only one guy at the counter sipping something probably not FDA-approved. A waitress quickly takes your drinks orders, delivers two waters, before she slides in behind the register and starts flipping through a People magazine.

“Cozy, right?” Eddie smiles, drumming his fingers on the sticky laminate table. “Like if a truck stop and a horror movie had a baby. I’ve written like… three different murder ballads in here.”

You smile around the straw of your water. “I’m assuming none of them are about fries.”

“Not yet, bats.”

You pause, a bit startled by the sudden nickname. “Bats?”

He shrugs like it’s really nothing, but his grin is absolutely something. “Back at the bar… you kinda flinched when I said it, and your cheeks did this little—” He gestures vaguely around his own face. “—smiley thing, so. I figured it was worth repeating.”

You feel your face start to burn, but the heat is nicer now than it is scary. Like he’s turning your nerves into something you want to sit in for a while. “You’re pretty observant.”

“Guilty,” he says softly, brown eyes bright with yearning. “I’m very tuned in to pretty girls who might secretly be vampires.”

You sip your water, hiding your smile as you divert your eyes down to his hand. You admire the rings adorning his fingers and you chuckle. “Only on weekends.”

“Shit,” he groans, thumping his hands on the table top. “It’s Saturday.”

Before you can respond to him, the waitress shuffles back over and asks what you want. Eddie orders like coming here has been one of his most favored traditions his entire young adult life— one chocolate milkshake, one plate of fries “big enough to sedate a horse” to share, and one strawberry milkshake he’d seen you eyeing on the menu.

“You really do notice everything, don’t you?” you ask once she’s gone, your cheeks still hot.

Eddie shrugs and lets his elbows rest on the table, looking everywhere but you. He’s growing bashful for a rare second. “I try to. Especially when someone interesting keeps showing up every Tuesday and pretending they don’t want me to notice them.”

You can’t even hide your smile this time, so you turn your face away. “Wasn’t pretending… I’m just… shy.”

“I knew it!” he crows, smacking the table again. “The eyeliner doesn’t lie.”

The fries arrive like a small mountain and he pushes the plate toward you dramatically, like he’s offering you treasure. “Behold. This is our destiny.”

You both eat and he talks. God, he talks. He tells you about Corroded Coffin’s first show at the Hideout (How for a long time they played to the same 5 drunks who were too wasted to find their way outside), and how Gareth once accidentally hit himself in the head with a cymbal trying to set up. He tells you about how his uncle’s old truck won’t start so he’s gotta take a look at it in the morning and how he nearly flunked O’Donnell’s three years in a row. He tells you about you, somehow— what he’s noticed during the night, what he likes, in between jokes and stories.

“You always look like you’re halfway out the door,” he says softly, picking at one of the fries. You go quiet after that. He doesn’t press on it. After a while, he tosses the last fry into his mouth and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Alright, Bats,” he says, leaning back to stretch his spine. “You want me to take you home, or back to the bar, or…?”

“Can we sit in the van for a bit?” you ask. Your voice is soft and you don’t meet his eyes.

He looks at you for a moment and then smiles as he nods, just a bit. “Hell yeah, we can.” He throws a few bills on the table and helps you up and out to the parking lot.

The van smells like cologne and cheap air freshener and something warm you can’t name that you hadn’t noticed earlier. Eddie climbs into the driver’s seat, twisting to face you as you sit sideways in the passenger one, your knee drawn up in the seat.“Okay,” he says after a moment. “So here’s the part where I either do something wildly inappropriate or I stare at you until you finally say something profound.”

You laugh before you mean to, turning to look out at the other cars littering the parking lot. “That’s a lot of pressure, Eddie.”

“I know,” he says, mock-sincere with a hand against his heart. “I’m very complex.”

You hum, then tilt your head to look at him for a moment. The facade starts to crack. He’s just like you. “You don’t seem as confident in here.”

He squints at you, confused, “What, like physically?”

“Like… when you’re not onstage. You talk more. Your body language is different.”

He seems to chew on your words for a second. “Guess that’s fair,” he shrugs, leaning back against the seat. He feels like melting. “Stage me’s got armor. Real me’s… just hoping I’m not gonna say something stupid when I’m hoping I’ve got a chance.”

You lean a little closer to him. “You haven’t said anything stupid.”

He meets your gaze fully now. And then he just smiles.

tags ;; @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @kripkie101-blog @prettycalla @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie n bats #🎸🦇

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